


A Home For What Loves You

by TheWrongShop



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (sort of. involuntarily.), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aro-spec Jonathan Sims, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Discussions of Asexuality, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kiss-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Literal Sleeping Together, Living Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Relationship Negotiation, Season 1 canon divergence, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 132,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWrongShop/pseuds/TheWrongShop
Summary: It was completely fine that Jon was following up on this very normal, non-supernatural statement at midnight on a Friday. He was going to find nothing at all, and then he was going to go home and sleep for fourteen straight hours and feel absolutely no qualms about moving case #0150409 directly into the filing cabinet marked "discredited".Or; Jon and Martin end up investigating Carlos Vittery's basement and finding the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss together.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 2178
Kudos: 1506
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	1. Audio Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [AUDIO ID: A recording of a conversation between the archival assistants Sasha James and Tim Stoker, regarding the absence of their coworkers Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims and related topics.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a S1 canon divergence fic! As such, it is unfortunately gonna contain... a lot of worms. (Or maybe fortunately? Idk, I'm told a lot of you guys are super into Jane Prentiss. If that's your thing, you're welcome. It will also contain Jonmartin of course, but... later.) I don't intend on this getting too gross, but I'm going to add specific content warnings to the end notes of each chapter just in case. Enjoy! :)

_Audio file recorded 29 th February, 2016. Archival break room._

**[KITCHEN SOUNDS. A CABINET OPENS AND CLOSES, AND A CHAIR SQUEAKS]**

**SASHA JAMES:** Hey, Tim!

**TIM STOKER:** Sasha! What is _up._

**[A CHAIR SQUEAKS]**

**SASHA:** Nothing much. Hey, have you seen Martin?

**TIM:** Hm. Y’know, I don’t think I have. Is he out, then?

**SASHA:** S’pose so. It’s just that he usually texts.

**TIM:** Eh, he’s probably just running late then. Hope he’s not sick, though. He’ll miss our archival assistants’ night out!

**[SASHA LAUGHS]**

**SASHA:** Tim, it’s _Monday!_ It’s not like we were going to _go out_ tonight anyway!

**[TIM INHALES SHARPLY]**

**TIM:** _(deeply wounded)_ _Sasha._ You think so little of me. Honestly, it’s like you’ve forgotten all our legendary Monday night exploits…

**SASHA:** _(crosstalk, laughing)_ _Anyway._ Martin was supposed to do some research on the Vittery case last week so I could start on follow-ups, but if he’s not here there isn’t much I can do.

**TIM:** Hell yeah, free day? Wanna play hooky?

**[SASHA SNORTS]**

**SASHA:** Right. I’ll just toss all the _other_ statements I could be working on in the bin, head out and enjoy the- _(pause, presumably as she checks a watch)_ - _10:30_ Monday morning nightlife, and then come back just in time for Jon to decapitate me and lecture my severed head. Ready when you are, Stoker.

**TIM:** _(audibly smiling)_ Let’s do it.

**[SWALLOWING NOISE AS TIM TAKES A SIP OF TEA]**

**TIM (CON’T):** Jon wouldn’t decapitate you, though. He likes you too much. Now, if _Martin_ pulled something like that-

**SASHA:** Mm. Poor Martin – I wish Jon would go a bit easier on him.

**TIM:** Yeah.

**SASHA:** I hope Jon’s not too upset with him for being gone today.

**TIM:** Oh! That shouldn’t be a problem, actually.

**SASHA:** What?

**TIM:** I thought you noticed. Boss-man’s missing, too. He won’t even know Martin isn’t here.

**SASHA:** Oh! I didn’t realize. That’s weird, I don’t remember the last time Jon missed work.

**TIM:** _(delighted)_ Right? I’m thinking all the hours of sleep he’s missed reading statements caught up to him, and now he’s gonna sleep for at least three years. _Or_ he finally made the transition into full-time library cryptid, and he’s drifting semi-corporeal through the shelves somewhere.

**[SASHA LAUGHS]**

**SASHA:** Probably the second one.

**TIM:** Totally. Not long now until the first statements start rolling in about him. _(high-pitched, dramatic)_ _And then an extremely grumpy man in a cardigan just appeared in front of me, and started lecturing me about filing procedures! I don’t know how I’ll ever recover!_

**SASHA:** _(solemn)_ I’m sorry, but there’s just not enough evidence to reliably follow up on this. I’m afraid this statement will be filed under _discredited._

**TIM:** _(laughing)_ Damn.

**[THERE ARE SEVERAL SECONDS OF RELATIVE SILENCE, ASIDE FROM MUGS AGAINST THE TABLE AND SOME RUSTLING]**

**TIM:** _(mischievous)_ _Maybe_ they’re both late because Martin finally made a move.

**[SASHA SPLUTTERS]**

**SASHA:** _Tim!_

**TIM:** What?

**SASHA:** I do _not_ want to think about that.

**TIM:** Who would? _(smugly)_ Aside from Martin, of course-

**SASHA:** _(crosstalk)_ Don’t be gross.

**TIM:** Just theorizing, Sash. I don’t know what Martin sees in him anyway.

**SASHA:** Me either. Maybe he’s into the whole prematurely grey thing?

**TIM:** Or the arrogant bastard thing.

**SASHA:** Rude.

**TIM:** It’s true.

**SASHA:** I think he’s just under a lot of pressure.

**TIM:** I guess so. He was more fun in research – I swear I even saw him smile once.

**SASHA:** Imagine that.

**TIM:** It was a goddamn miracle. I’ll have to try and trick him into doing it again later.

**SASHA:** Once he awakens from his thousand-year slumber, you mean.

**TIM:** _(amused)_ Right.

_End recording._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't know if you can tell, but I REALLY love Tim and Sasha's dynamic. I hope they're enjoying that joint kayaking trip. *sheds a single tear*
> 
> Chapter 2 will probably go up pretty soon, just bc this one wasn't especially plot-heavy and I'd like to give you a bit more plot to latch onto asap. Other than that, I'm going to TRY to update this once a week, but this is my first time posting a longer fic and I'm still figuring things out, so please bear with me!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: None! Enjoy some short & sweet foreshadowing!
> 
> :)


	2. Supplemental Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon heads out to do some late-night research on Carlos Vittery and meets Martin, who had a similar idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, welcome to the actual plot! I hope you enjoy this weird hodgepodge of canon plot points and events of my own evil devising - I certainly had a ton of fun writing it. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes. I think I've got pretty much everything covered, but please let me know if there's anything I missed that I should be tagging for! :)

_Events documented 26 th February, 2016._

Jon didn’t really know how he got here.

That wasn’t entirely true. He knew exactly the route he had taken from his flat to the tube to the gloomy, streetlamp-lit street he walked down now, clutching an unlit torch in one hand and digging his nails into the palm of the other. How he had reached a point in his life, however, where reconnaissance missions at quarter past twelve into a dead stranger’s apartment complex were even a feasible _possibility_ was more of a mystery.

He didn’t even have an especially good reason to be doing this, really, Jon thought as he passed from the fluorescent glow of a streetlight into shadow and suppressed a shudder. Carlos Vittery was _dead_ , almost certainly of natural causes ( _certainly,_ Jon thought forcefully), and the needlepoints of terror that had pricked the back of his neck while recording Vittery’s statement were nothing but delusion and a few too many sleepless nights talking. It had absolutely nothing to do with the eyes he had felt staring from all corners of the room as he read it, or with the garbled nonsense produced when he’d attempted to record it on his laptop.

Which was why it was _fine_ that Jon was following up on this very normal, non-supernatural statement at midnight on a Friday. He was going to find nothing at all, and then he was going to go home and sleep for fourteen straight hours and feel absolutely no qualms about moving case #0150409 directly into the filing cabinet marked _Discredited_. It was so fine, in fact, that Jon did not turn on his torch as he turned onto Boothby Road and found himself in front of the late Mr. Vittery’s former home.

The building looked like basically any other urban housing complex. It was wide and squat, with a clearly old paint job that would probably have been a bland shade of beige in daylight. At this hour, only two of the windows were still lit, and both were framed by the type of patterned curtains better suited to a cheap motel. Jon was just going to walk the perimeter once or twice, he decided, maybe shine a light into any ground-level windows he passed to confirm the absence of unkillable malicious spiders, and then call it a night.

He had barely taken two steps forward into the swathes of shadow clinging to the house when he froze in his tracks. That was movement. Something- some _one_ else was out here, and Jon quite firmly did not believe it was something inhuman (he was here to investigate spiders, for God’s sake), but he wasn’t especially keen on getting arrested for trespassing either.

He stood motionless outside the reach of the nearest streetlight’s halo, desperately glad he hadn’t turned his torch on. Footsteps crunched on gravel in the darkness, and Jon’s eyes had just adjusted enough to distinguish a figure when the person stopped abruptly. Jon swallowed tightly, his heart hammering in his throat.

Then there was a _click_ and he was awash in light, his eyes stinging as he gave a shocked cry.

“ _Jon?_ ” The voice from behind the torch’s beam was instantly familiar, and Jon grimaced as he lowered his hand from in front of his eyes to try and make out who it was.

The beam lowered enough for Jon to see a familiar jumper-clad silhouette and a curly mop of hair. “ _Martin?”_ Heart-pounding terror quickly gave way to irritation. Furiously, he whispered, “ _What the_ hell _are you doing here?”_

_“I could ask you the same thing,”_ Martin whisper-shouted. “Since when do you follow up on cases?”

“Since now,” Jon snapped, hearing the petulance in his own voice and not caring one bit.

Martin gave an exasperated sigh and clicked the torch off, much to Jon’s relief. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said into the darkness between them.

Jon huffed. “Did you find anything, at least?”

The silhouette of Martin did something that might have been shaking its head. “Just got here,” he whispered. “Talked to some of the residents earlier today, but they couldn’t tell me much.”

“Then what are you doing back here?”

Martin motioned to the side of the building. “I was in the basement, before. Didn’t get a really good look, but there were a bunch of spiderwebs and, uh…” He looked a bit sheepish. “I think my shadow was acting strange? I know that sounds mad, but it seemed, I don’t know, worth a second look.”

Jon sighed. “Alright, then,” he whispered. “Let’s get on with it.”

“O-oh! Okay. There’s… there’s an open window back there.”

They made their way side by side to the window Martin had located, the company dulling the weight of the darkness a bit. When they had reached the far side of the building, Martin stopped and clicked on his torch, angling it toward the ground. There was a small depression in the wall there, level with the ground and barely wider than Jon’s shoulders.

He gave Martin an incredulous look. “You climbed in through _that_?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, it was a bit of a squeeze, but it’s not as small as it looks.”

The window’s size was not exactly Jon’s greatest concern, but he felt no need to point that out. He crouched down to shine a light inside and found that the beam barely penetrated the darkness; in order to see anything properly, they would definitely have to go inside.

“So,” Martin said from above him. “Who, er… who wants to go first, then?”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He was going to have a headache later, he was sure of it. “I’ll go,” he said.

“Right!” Martin sounded a bit too cheery for someone about to climb in a potentially haunted basement window. “You’ll want to go in, uh, feet first.”

“Feet first,” Jon repeated dully. “Right.” This was a mistake. Nevertheless, he turned his back to the window and slotted his feet through the narrow opening. This would hopefully teach him, at least, not to go on impromptu late-night missions. Awkwardly, he wriggled backwards on his stomach, moving his body gradually through the window.

“It’s a bit of a drop,” Martin cautioned, and Jon craned his neck to glare at him. Finally, he worked his shoulders past the frame and was left dangling fully into the basement, his feet not touching the ground. It was dark enough that he couldn’t make out the ground. _Bit of a drop, indeed,_ Jon thought bitterly and released his grip on the window.

The impact of the ground sent an unpleasant shockwave jolting up from Jon’s feet, but he managed to keep his footing with only a bit of a stumble. A glance upward revealed that he had fallen maybe three feet from the window, which was now partially blotted out by Martin’s silhouette.

“Alright?” Martin called lowly.

“Yes, fine,” Jon grumbled. “Come on, then.”

As Martin squirmed his way through the window, Jon clicked on his torch and swept the beam across the basement. The room was not especially large, but the light was weak enough that it could not penetrate the darkness enough to illuminate the whole space. The corners were, as Martin had described, grimy and thick with cobwebs. Jon clenched his jaw as he aimed his torch at these, and moved the beam away as soon as a cursory search revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

The far side of the basement was too dark to make out, so Jon took a few cautious steps forward. The light revealed several more spiderwebs, but certainly nothing unnatural. There was a soft _oof_ behind him as Martin dropped to the floor, and shortly afterward a second beam of light fell into place beside Jon’s own.

“See anything?” Martin whispered, sweeping his light across the corner Jon had just cleared.

“Just some regular cobwebs,” Jon muttered.

Martin looked distinctly as though he wanted to say something else, but then he stilled suddenly and lifted a finger to his lips.

Jon furrowed his brow in a manner that he hoped conveyed _what in the world are you doing,_ but kept quiet. In the absence of the sounds of his and Martin’s movement, there was… another sound. It was faint, and sounded almost wet. Squelching and slow. Like the sound of a thick liquid being stirred.

He met Martin’s eye and saw his own apprehension mirrored there. Together, they turned their gazes on the one darkened corner they hadn’t yet explored.

When the beams of their torches fell on what stood in that corner, Jon had to swallow back a scream.

It was… a woman. Or something shaped like a woman. It had long, lank black hair, which was all that was visible of its head as it faced the corner. It was hunched over slightly, and as Jon and Martin looked on in horror, it convulsed in a motion that might have been called a cough had it been coming from a human. It held a filthy handkerchief to its mouth and coughed again, with a sound that was more like tearing flesh than anything else. Jon’s stomach turned. This was all _wrong,_ it was supposed to be _spiders_ , not-

Something metallic and wriggling fell from the thing’s handkerchief to the floor with a sick _splat_ , and Jon shuddered. Not _worms._ Beside him, Martin was breathing heavily, and at the sight of the worm, he made a tiny whimpering noise.

“Jon?”

“Go,” Jon breathed. Whatever this thing was, they were in no way prepared to face it. As he spoke, the figure shifted, angling so its profile was visible, and in the weak glow of the torch, Jon saw its _skin._ Or, what was left of it. The woman’s face was entirely riddled with holes, grey and ashen and _writhing-_ “Martin, go, we need to-”

His voice finally caught its attention, and it turned to face them fully. _Oh God,_ some helpless little part of Jon’s brain whispered. _I know you._

The thing that used to be Jane Prentiss smiled.

It was a horrible thing to see. The motion puckered and stretched the holes of its skin, and as it hissed, “ _Archivist_ ,” several more worms squeezed from the cavities. They fell gracelessly to the floor, and Jon backed slowly away as they began wriggling toward him and Martin with alarming speed.

Then, without warning, one of the worms _leaped._ Martin shrieked as it flew directly at them, and all thoughts of a slow and cautious retreat vanished from Jon’s mind.

“ _MARTIN, RUN!”_ He yelled. Blindly, he scrambled backward, anywhere away from the worms, and shouted as he felt a hand close around his wrist.

“ _This way!”_ Martin shouted, tugging Jon toward a staircase he hadn’t noticed. They stumbled up the steps and Martin fumbled for the handle, dropping his torch in the process. Terrified, Jon looked over his shoulder. In the stripe of light cast on the floor by Martin’s torch, he could see dozens of metallic silvery worms racing toward them, followed by Prentiss, who was making her way across the room at a leisurely pace. Then Martin yanked the door open, and they tumbled outside, not bothering to shut it behind them before taking off at a sprint.

Jon didn’t really know how long they ran for. The pounding of his heart in his ears and the quicksilver rush of adrenaline blurred everything, even the street names. He could have been anywhere, but Martin seemed to know where he was going, and Jon followed him blindly. Every time one of them slowed, the other would cast a paranoid glance at the darkened streets behind them and they would run off again at full tilt.

Eventually Jon found himself at the same tube station he’d gotten off at earlier that evening. The next train wasn’t due for another minute, and Martin kept throwing anxious looks over his shoulder, muttering, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…” The only other person at the station, a worn-looking businessman in a rumpled suit, gave them an odd look but didn’t ask any questions.

When they finally got on the tube, Martin immediately began scouring the seats – looking for worms, Jon realized. The thought alone was enough to make his skin itch unpleasantly. The feeling did not abate after he sat down, and Jon squirmed in his seat.

“So,” he said after a terse minute. His voice was raw with exertion and shook slightly, but he pressed on. “We should give our statements.”

Martin laughed, a fragile-sounding, humorless thing. “Sure, Jon.”

They lapsed back into silence, except for the periodic sound of one of them scratching compulsively at their skin. Jon itched for a tape recorder.

Neither of them talked until an automated tinny voice echoed over the intercom to announce a stop - Jon didn’t register which one - and Martin stood. Jon followed him out of the tube station rather numbly. They weren’t running anymore, but Jon still trembled with unspent adrenaline.

He dug his nails into the palms of his hands to stop the shaking and said, “Prentiss.”

Martin’s eyes snapped to meet his. “What?”

“That- _thing_ in the basement. I, I think that used to be Jane Prentiss.”

“Oh.” Martin ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”

“What I _don’t_ understand is what she was doing in Vittery’s building. As far as the statements go, she had nothing to do with that place.” Jon exhaled unsteadily. He didn’t really smoke anymore, but what he wouldn’t give for a cigarette right then. “I’ll have to look into that statement she's in again. Maybe compare it to Vittery’s.”

“ _Jon,_ ” Martin said with an air of disbelief. “Are you really thinking about _work_ right now? We just almost got killed!”

“ _By_ a being we have extensive reports on,” Jon snapped. “I don’t know about you, but _I’d_ rather be at the Institute right now.”

“Personally,” Martin said, “I think I’d like to go to sleep and pretend this whole thing never happened.”

“Not really an option, unfortunately.” Jon looked around at the unfamiliar streets. “Actually, where are we right now? I’ll need to record all this anyway, maybe I can-”

Martin looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “You want to go to work _now?_ ”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I rather think I do.”

Martin was already shaking his head. “Jon, that’s mad. It’ll take you ages to get back to the Institute from here, even if you _don’t_ get attacked by worms on the way.” He pointed down the street ahead of them. "My flat is about two minutes that way. You can sleep on the couch, if you like, and head to the Institute in the _morning._ ”

Jon scowled. He didn’t find the idea of sleeping on the sofa of his least competent assistant especially appealing, but a furtive glance over his shoulder confirmed he didn’t much fancy running God knew how far through potentially worm-infested streets either.

“Yes, fine,” he said finally. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin smiled. “Yeah. No problem.”

Martin’s flat, it turned out, was small, cozy, and a bit of a mess. Martin apologized profusely before letting him in, saying, “It’s really not usually this much of a mess, I’ve just been really busy lately and haven’t gotten around to cleaning, and-”

Jon could have told him that his flat hardly looked any better most of the time, but he didn’t. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, leaving him bone tired and just about dead on his feet. Instead, he shrugged, said, “It’s alright, Martin,” and sat heavily on the sofa beside the door.

“Right.” Martin sounded almost nervous, which was ridiculous considering he’d already faced a woman infested with worms that day. Leftover anxiety from the encounter, maybe. “Erm- okay then. Bathroom’s right there, help yourself to the fridge if you like, and… Need anything? A toothbrush or… clothes to sleep in or something?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Thank you.” He’d spent enough too-late nights in the Institute to get accustomed to sleeping in his street clothes.

“Alright!” Martin said brightly. He flicked off the light. “I’ll just grab you a blanket, then.”

He walked off into what Jon assumed was the bedroom, and Jon laid down on the sofa. He was unconscious almost immediately after his head hit the pillow.

He woke with a start an indeterminate amount of time later with no idea what had so suddenly jolted him awake.

Then it happened again, and it became glaringly obvious what had woken him.

Martin stumbled from the bedroom at the noise, looking rumpled and exhausted, and said, “Jon? Is that you?”

Jon swallowed.

“There’s someone at the door.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you're feeling equally intrigued and creepy-crawly. I know things don't look great for the boys right now, but fear not - I, unlike Jonny, am here for a romance, not a tragedy. 
> 
> My goal is to have the next chapter up one week from now (I'm trying to have at least one chapter written in advance each time I post, so 3 is already written but 4 is not), so I hope to see you again on Thursday the 25th!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: Basically everything associated with Jane Prentiss (trypophobia, canon-typical worms, body horror, stalking). Stay safe, friends! :)


	3. Secondary Location

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockingly, Jon and Martin don't take to being hostages too well. It turns out being trapped in a small flat with your crush makes for a situation that's an odd mix of nightmarish and disconcertingly domestic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohoohooo, I've been sitting on this one for a while. In the grand scheme of things, it's not that long, but it's easily the longest chapter I've ever written and I'm insanely proud of it.
> 
> Also, I really wanted to write an ace-centric fic this month but I don't know if I'll get to it, so I'll take this opportunity to say happy pride!! I love you all.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes. Enjoy!! :)

Martin woke to a loud banging noise. Stifling a groan, he dragged himself upright and blinked blearily at his alarm clock. Then he frowned and rubbed at his eyes. Instead of faintly glowing orange digits, the face of his clock was entirely black, no time visible at all. Was his power out?

And, perhaps more importantly, was someone taking a hammer to his living room?

The banging came again, and Martin forced himself out of bed. An experimental flick of a light switch revealed that the power was indeed not working. _Great_ , he thought.

“Jon?” he said as he entered the living room. “Is that you?”

One glance at the living room revealed it was definitely not Jon. Jon was still right on the sofa where Martin had left him, quilted blanket draped over him haphazardly and tangled around his legs. He was even still wearing shoes, a detail which Martin had chuckled over a bit the night before but not really seen fit to change. Unlike last night, though, Jon sat bolt upright with a wild look in his eyes.

He looked _scared_ , Martin realized. It was an expression that looked quite foreign on Jon’s face, usually so businesslike and impassive, and for a moment it genuinely did not occur to him what Jon might have to be scared of.

Then Jon whispered, “There’s someone at the door,” and it all came rushing back at once.

Vittery’s basement, with its rotten smell and the darkness that felt… _thicker_ than it should have. The squirming, roiling nest of worms in the shape of a woman as it _smiled_ in a motion that expelled more wriggling worms from its face. The screaming white noise in Martin’s head as he and Jon had stumbled up the stairs and he’d thought _if that door’s locked, it’s over._ The stinging slap of his feet on pavement, over and over and over to the tune of Jon’s voice in his head, ice cold, _Martin go we need to go we need to go._

Martin physically felt the blood drain from his face.

“The power’s out,” he said, voice falsely bright. It sounded strained, even to his own ears. “P- probably one of my neighbors checking in.”

Jon appeared unconvinced. “Yes, right. Probably,” he said.

Martin nodded but made no move toward the door.

The knock came again. Four sharp bangs, loud and insistent. _Oh, what the hell,_ Martin thought. What, was he expecting that worm creature to have dragged itself to his door only to _knock?_ The thing had been half eaten. It hardly seemed capable of making its way halfway across the city just to wait outside his door.

A neighbor, then. An unusually insistent one, but… a neighbor. “ _Right,”_ Martin muttered, mostly to himself, and walked over to the door. Jon watched him move with the kind of silent horror usually reserved for watching footage of a terrible car wreck on the news, or realizing the meal you had just devoured was horribly expired.

Martin’s hand was already resting on the doorknob when a flash of movement caught his eye. He hesitated, absentmindedly turned his gaze downward, registered a glint of silver, and-

Martin was sure he must have yelled. Probably screamed all kinds of obscenities as he stomped and stomped, feeling the sickening pop and crush of who knew how many worms under his socked feet, wildly defending his home the only way he knew how. Jon was shouting too, probably, but the fear, the absolute conviction that he was going to die here or turn into another flesh hive like that _thing,_ was screaming so loudly that he could scarcely make out his own thoughts in the frenzy.

Jon was stuffing the blanket Martin had given him into his hands, yelling something like “ _The door, under the door!_ ” and Martin obeyed unthinkingly, dropping to his knees where the worms still squirmed through the gap beneath the door by the dozens and frantically shoving the quilt into the crack to stem the flow. It worked, and as soon as he thought it was secure, he scrambled back up to his feet. There were still a few stragglers writhing on the floor, and Martin crushed these as well with a disgusted yell.

It took him a moment to be able to take his eyes off the door, sure that at any second the dam would break, but after the initial wave of terror abated slightly, Martin whipped around. Jon wasn’t right behind him like he had expected, and he went cold for a fraction of a second before realizing Jon was at the kitchen window, hurriedly stuffing a seemingly random assortment of items around the frame. Martin saw several dish towels and a tea cozy and- was that Jon’s tie?

He hurried to Jon’s side. “Jon, are you okay?”

That same panicked energy was still bright in Jon’s eyes. “I think so,” he said with a quick glance down at himself like he was taking inventory. “Are you?”

“Y-yeah, I think I’m alright. Good, ah, good idea with the blanket.”

Jon nodded grimly. “We should seal off any other openings, too.”

“Right, right.” Martin hurried into his bedroom and wasted no time packing a shirt he’d left on the ground into the cracks around the window. He’d _liked_ that shirt, he thought mournfully. But no use dwelling on it now. So quickly his knees cracked, he dropped to the ground and stuffed another shirt into the heating vent on the floor. Why did his flat have to be so full of _holes?_

From the other room, he heard Jon shout, a startled “A- _Ah!”_ , and was halfway into the living room before he even registered he was moving.

“ _Jon?_ What’s happening?”

Jon stood in a corner of the living room beside Martin’s bookshelf, rumpled and breathing heavily but in no danger Martin could see. “A worm,” he said between gulps of air. “Came in through the vents. I… got it, though.”

The vent in question was now covered with what looked like a bedsheet, and Jon was scuffing his shoe on the floor anxiously. He must have found the linen closet then, Martin thought, and fought down a nonsensical wave of embarrassment at the thought of Jon rooting through his sheets. “Good,” he said weakly. “Good. I think there shouldn’t really be any more openings in the house, but I- I’m going to walk through one more time just to be safe.”

“I’ll come with,” Jon said immediately.

There was another knock at the door. Martin flinched, and out of the corner of his eye it looked like Jon did too. This one felt almost mocking, as though the creature on the other side was delighting in their panic and wanted to make sure she wasn’t forgotten.

“Actually,” Martin said, “Would you stay and watch the door? Just, uh, just in case more worms come through?”

Jon frowned, but nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.”

A quick sweep of the kitchen and bedroom revealed no further gaps or openings a worm could squeeze through, though Martin did take the opportunity to throw some of the clothes littering his bedroom floor in a hamper. It was lucky, really, that his flat wasn’t bigger, he thought. There were only a few places here that could really be used as entry points.

In the bathroom, there was a vent Martin had overlooked. The realization sent a bolt of white-hot fear through him, and his heart rate only slowed again when he had stuffed the vent with a hand towel and thoroughly examined every inch of the tiled floor for any hint of something shiny and silver.

When he returned to the living room, he found Jon standing a safe distance from the door, staring at it like the slightest lapse in concentration would bring forth a renewed swell of worms.

“All clear,” Martin announced.

Jon took a visibly shaky breath. “Good.” He did not avert his eyes from the door.

The silence that fell then might have lasted mere seconds or several minutes. Neither of them seemed willing to move from the door lest Prentiss decided she was done waiting and broke it down, or something equally horrifying.

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Martin broke the silence. “Now what?”

Jon sighed and finally turned to face him. “I… don’t know. I suppose we- _Martin!_ ”

Martin jumped, his heart instantly back in his throat. “ _What? Where?”_

Jon had gone quite pale. “Oh, God,” he said. “Your _hand,_ Martin.”

“ _My WHAT!”_ Martin raised both his hands, panicked. Sure enough, from the back of his left hand, in a circular smudge of blood, protruded the tail end of a silvery worm. He hadn’t even felt it at first, but now the sensation was obvious and squirming and nightmarish. Martin shrieked. “ _Oh God!_ Jon – _what do we do?_ ”

“Alright, alright, stay calm,” Jon said, running his hand through his already wild hair. He did not look even remotely calm. “Do you have- tweezers? Pliers? Something we can use to-” He made a pinch-and-pull motion with his hand.

“Yes! Yes, in the bathroom, I’ll-”

Jon was already moving before Martin could finish. There was a loud clattering, presumably as Jon dug through the small cabinet, and shortly afterward a triumphant “Aha!” echoed from the bathroom. Jon ran back in clutching the tweezers and said, “Right. You should probably sit down for this.”

In a strange state somewhere between numbness and abject terror, Martin plunked himself in one of the chairs at his small kitchen table. He laid the hand with the worm on the table, where it shook horribly, and faced Jon as he sat in the other chair and wielded the tweezers.

Any other day, Martin would have been ecstatic to have Jon gently, carefully take his hand and hold it in both of his own. However, most of Martin’s pipe dreams didn’t involve the removal of a parasitic supernatural worm, and as such the reality didn’t really measure up to anything he had imagined. Jon’s grip _was_ pleasantly firm and gentle, though, and Martin squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on that instead of what was really happening.

“Must have happened when you were getting the blanket under the door,” Jon mumbled as he did something that pinched the skin on Martin’s hand.

Martin winced. “Could you… please talk about something else? Just- anything but worms, right now?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Jon said. “Okay, how about, er… did you know that the way we understand language relies on something called cohort theory?”

Martin choked on a laugh despite himself. “No?” There was a dreadful pulling sensation and a brief flare of pain. He gritted his teeth. “What’s cohort theory, then?”

“It’s a concept in linguistics. Your brain works in a way where it identifies the individual sounds it’s hearing in real time, then makes a series of rapid-fire guesses as to what other sounds could logically follow it.” There was a sharp tug, and Martin gasped. Jon plowed on. “So, for example, if you hear me make a _th_ sound, your brain will automatically start making predictions about what sounds will follow it. Probably a vowel, but I could still be saying anything from… I don’t know, _thumb_ to _thank you_. So your brain creates an array of sounds that could follow that sound based on the context of the situation, and then each new sound you hear afterward refines your understanding. Most of the time, you have a full understanding of what you’re hearing, or at least expecting to hear, long before you consciously process it. In essence, your mind works like an extremely sophisticated search engine.”

“Hm,” Martin said, and found that he could speak without his voice trembling too terribly. “That’s pretty cool.”

Jon hummed in assent and gave one final sharp tug. Martin yelped, and with a horrible squelching sound, the worm came loose. “There we are,” Jon said, and withdrew his hand from Martin’s. He mourned the loss immediately. Jon held the worm at arm’s length, dangling from the tweezers. Martin saw his own blood shining slickly on its throbbing, writhing body, and he shuddered. He turned his gaze on Jon instead.

“Thank you.”

“Oh. Um. Yes, of course.” Jon’s expression was slightly pained. “Look, is there anywhere I can put this?”

A laugh burst out of Martin. Jon looked quite helpless, eyeing the tiny creature hanging from the pincers with thinly veiled disgust. “Yeah, er… just drop it on the ground and crush it, I suppose?”

Jon’s nose wrinkled rather adorably, but he did as Martin asked. The sound of Jon’s shoe coming down on the worm was deeply unpleasant, and they cringed in unison.

“Well, that was disgusting,” Martin said. As if on cue, Prentiss knocked again. He scowled at the door.

“Yes, it was.” Jon inspected the bottom of his shoe with a grimace. “Perhaps you’d best make sure there aren’t any…” He gestured vaguely toward Martin’s body at large. “…more.”

“Right.” Martin cleared his throat. “You should as well. Just in case.”

Jon nodded. “I will. Once, uh, once you’re done. I’ll keep watch for now.”

“Hm. Good thinking.” As Martin made his way to the bedroom, he cast a glance over his shoulder at Jon. “Be careful, yeah?”

Jon looked rather startled at this. “Oh! Yes, yes, I will. You too, Martin.”

Martin turned his head so Jon wouldn’t see his smile and shut the door behind him. He shucked his clothes off quickly, running his hands up and down his arms in search of squirming bodies. Thankfully, he found nothing, and his legs were worm-free as well. It was only after Martin pulled his clothes back on (and discarded his worm gunk-coated socks with immeasurable disgust) that some remaining vestige of panic he had been holding onto finally drained from his body. Yes, things were still bad, but the immediate threat seemed to have passed.

Seemingly in response to his sliver of optimism, another staccato pounding noise echoed through the flat. Martin sighed, then headed back outside and rejoined Jon.

“Ah,” Jon said when he emerged. “No worms, then?”

“No worms,” Martin confirmed. “You can use the bedroom, if you like.”

Jon nodded. “I’ll just be a moment.” He walked off and shut the door behind him, and Martin took a moment to reflect on how strange it was to have Jon, the object of his affections for so many months, in his apartment for the first time. In his _bedroom,_ no less, even if Martin wasn’t in there with him. It wasn’t at all like he had imagined it might be, though Martin allowed that he could confidently attribute that to the hostage situation they were currently in. Besides, their main focus should really be _leaving_ the flat so Martin might live to have Jon over in better circumstances one day.

Tim and Sasha might be able to help. In fact, Martin imagined Tim could even be excited to finally see the subject of a statement in person. He seemed the type to be thrilled rather than frightened at the chance of a supernatural encounter. Heartened, Martin reached in his pocket for his phone.

It wasn’t there.

Frowning, Martin patted down every pocket on his person, then turned to the coffee table when that yielded no results. He couldn’t see it anywhere, and wondered idly if he had dropped it in his bedroom while changing. That was probably it. He would go in and find it once Jon had finished.

He settled into a kitchen chair to wait, and soon enough, Jon emerged from the bedroom. Martin gave him an inquisitive look, and Jon said, “Nothing.”

“Great. Hey, you didn’t see my phone in there by any chance, did you?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so. Misplaced it, have you?”

“I-I’m sure it’s in here somewhere,” Martin said. If he sounded a touch defensive, it wasn’t his fault Jon had accused him of losing things at work a few too many times. “I wanted to call Tim and Sasha. Tell them what happened.”

“Ah. Yes. We should do that. Luckily, I have _my_ phone right here.” This was said with a meaningful glance at Martin, which he could only assume was intended to impart a stern message about the importance of keeping track of one’s things. He barely resisted rolling his eyes.

Jon fished his cell phone out of his pocket triumphantly. Hardly a moment later, the vague smugness slid off his face and was replaced with something darker. Grimly, he announced, “My battery’s dead.”

A tinge of dread began to creep into Martin’s mind again. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Jon echoed flatly. He fiddled furiously with the buttons for a moment, to no avail. “ _Damn!”_

“That’s, that’s alright,” Martin said with some desperation. “Mine’s got to be here somewhere. I’ll just find it.”

“Yes.” Jon’s voice was as hollow as Martin was beginning to feel. “Right. Not a problem.”

It was definitely a problem. Martin scoured every inch of his bedroom, going so far as to check if it had gotten caught in any of the clothes he had discarded in the closet, but his phone was nowhere to be found. Judging by the bleak expression on Jon’s face when Martin returned to the living room, he hadn’t found it either. His flat now looked rather like there had been a break-in, though; Jon had evidently upturned the sofa cushions and opened every single kitchen cabinet, of all things, in his search. In other circumstances, it might even have been funny. Jon stood in the middle of the mess of Martin’s living room like a dog who had just been caught in the act of tearing up the furniture. As it was, though, Martin couldn’t even crack a smile.

“It’s nowhere in the bedroom,” he reported solemnly. “I… I must have dropped it yesterday when we were running.”

Jon looked absolutely crestfallen, and it took everything in Martin’s power not to walk right over and just hold him the way every instinct besides common sense was telling him to. He was certain they could both use the comfort.

“It’ll be alright,” he tried instead. “On Monday at the latest, Tim and Sasha will notice we’re gone. It’ll be suspicious that we’re both missing, and I’m sure they’ll want to check in.” His voice wavered slightly, but Martin refused to let that deter him.

Jon nodded helplessly. “I’ll try and remember what I can from the statement of Timothy Hodge,” he said. “Maybe there was something in there that we can use against Prentiss.”

“Alright,” Martin said. “I’ll, uh…” What _could_ he do, short of storming the door and trying to fight Prentiss himself? If they were going to spend the next two days holed up in this flat, there had to be something he could _do_. “I’ll make some tea?”

A glance at Jon revealed he had collapsed into a kitchen chair, his head cradled in his hands in a position not unlike the one he so often assumed while reading statements.

“Jon?”

“Yes,” Jon said into his hands, punctuated by a knock at the door. “Tea would be fine.”

So Martin made tea, and even allowed himself to pretend it helped for a little while. It was almost like being at the Institute for the periodic stretches of time he managed to ignore Prentiss’s presence, what with bringing Jon tea as he worked and being thanked gruffly and feeling altogether like he should be doing more but not knowing _how_.

Jon sat at the kitchen table equipped with a pen and paper and didn’t seem likely to move anytime soon, so Martin busied himself with shoring up their defenses and creating a mental inventory of everything they had at hand. Thankfully, there was running water, and although Martin eyed the pipes with some trepidation, it seemed they wouldn’t be short anything to drink. There were plenty of ready meals, only some of which were frozen and beginning to thaw in the powerless fridge. As far as potential defenses went, though, Martin’s flat was not especially well prepared. He had a few kitchen knives and a fire extinguisher he figured could be used as a blunt force weapon if nothing else, but there wasn’t much they could use to ward Prentiss off if she made it through the door.

For all her hours of knocking, though, she never seemed to make any actual attempts to break in, and this chilled Martin almost more deeply than anything else. Surely she could have broken down the door without much trouble, but she seemed content to wait them out.

When Martin pointed this out to Jon, he just frowned and said, “Well. I suppose we’ll just have to figure something out before then.”

That shouldn’t have been comforting by any definition of the word, but Martin decided that if Jon wasn’t panicking yet, he wouldn’t either. Jon was always so reasonable, so collected, that if he was maintaining that even now things couldn’t be as hopeless as they felt.

“Right,” he said instead of spewing forth the torrent of anxious thoughts swirling around his mind. He changed tacks. “Do you want something to eat? I… honestly don’t know what time it is, heh, still no clocks working or anything, but some lunch probably couldn’t hurt.”

“Why not.” Jon stretched his arms and scowled at the paper in front of him. There were several notes scribbled there, but he said, “It’s not like I’m making any real headway here anyway.”

Martin hummed sympathetically and opened the freezer. “I mostly have frozen stuff, I’m afraid. Chicken or pasta?”

“Hmm. Pasta?”

“You got it.”

He got as far as opening the microwave door before realizing the flaw in his plan. He turned back to Jon, who had clearly just had the same realization.

“Ah,” Jon said. “Maybe… is the stove still working? You could put it in a pot and heat it up that way?”

“That’ll work,” Martin replied, relieved. Once he had a pot with a double portion of pasta slowly thawing on the stove, he joined Jon sitting at the table. The tweezers still lay there smeared with blood, and he could quite clearly see the smudge on the floor where the worm had been crushed. They could have been props on the set of a B-list film. Martin gave a humorless little laugh. This _was_ a bit of a horror movie, wasn’t it?

Jon gave him an odd look, so he said, “It’s just… strange, to be on this end of the statement, for once? Usually it all feels a bit more... detached.”

“Ah. Yes.” Jon sighed. “I must say I preferred it that way.”

Martin huffed a laugh, a real one this time. “Yeah. No kidding.” There was a pause in which the only sound was the faint hissing of the pasta in the background. Then Martin said, “I hope this’ll be enough to get you to stop being so skeptical of all the statements, at least.”

The hint of a smile that had appeared on Jon’s face a moment ago melted. He didn’t respond.

“Why… why were you so set on not believing them, anyway?” Martin asked tentatively. He felt a bit like he was on thin ice, though he couldn’t have said exactly why. “I mean, sure, some of them were obviously fake, but others… there was plenty of evidence for some of them.”

Jon just shook his head, half melancholy, half dismissive. “Doesn’t matter, Martin.”

“…okay.” He stood and gave the pot a stir. “Almost ready here.”

Jon nodded in acknowledgment. His fingers drummed out a nervous rhythm on the table.

After a moment, Jon said, “Do you, ah…” He looked quite lost. “Do you need any help?”

Martin had honestly expected Jon just to sit there, semi-catatonic, until a fork was literally pressed into his hand. It would have made sense, given the eating habits Jon had displayed at the Institute; the man often had to be forced to take his lunch break so he wouldn’t work straight through the day. “Uh, you can grab plates if you like? They’re- well. Right there. You can see them.” The cabinet still hung wide open.

Dutifully, Jon pulled down two plates and even managed to locate silverware, only pulling open one wrong drawer before extracting two forks. Martin’s kitchen was small, and as Jon moved past him to set his findings on the table, they almost brushed against each other. For an instant, it all felt horribly domestic in a way Martin would never admit to having imagined.

This illusion crumbled rather quickly when Martin watched Jon move the bloodied tweezers aside to make room for the plates, but- well. He could dream. No harm there.

Lunch was a quiet affair. Prentiss only knocked once as they ate, and Jon spent the entire meal looking a bit pinched. Martin couldn’t work out if there was something unpleasant working its way through his mind, or if he didn’t like the food. Both were plausible. The freezer-aisle pasta wasn’t exactly fine dining.

Their plates were nearly clear when Jon said, “I don’t know if I already said thank you.”

The bite of pasta Martin had just taken stuck a bit in his throat, and he swallowed thickly. “What?”

“I- It was very generous of you to let me stay in your flat. Especially now that I’m quite overstaying my welcome.”

Martin gaped at him, incredulous. “ _Overstaying your welcome?_ Jon, you’re- you’re _trapped_ here. I’d hardly be feeling grateful.”

“Regardless.” There was a slight edge to Jon’s voice that Martin couldn’t identify. He stabbed at his pasta a bit harder than was strictly necessary.

“I- of course, Jon,” he said a bit more softly. “You’re always welcome here.”

Jon grunted and turned back to his plate. He didn’t quite duck his head enough to disguise the color on his cheeks.

“Besides,” Martin added. “I basically _made_ you stay here last night.” He hung his head. “It’s my fault you’re stuck here at all.”

“Hm. I suppose.” Jon did not appear particularly moved. He made no attempts to elaborate.

Feeling like he’d swallowed a rock, Martin stood to clear his plate. He’d be lucky if Jon ever wanted anything to do with him again after this. He had two more days, he figured. Two more days of experiencing this perverse fantasy of living with Jon, of compulsory domesticity with that constant sick undercurrent of terror. Unless, of course, they were killed sometime before then. Prentiss might well get tired of waiting at any moment.

Jon appeared at his side a moment later to wash up his own plate, and Martin had to silently walk off into his bedroom. It was just all too much. He wasn’t made for this. He wasn’t Martin Blackwood, the man who heroically fought his way through whatever supernatural horrors the world threw at him. He could barely keep it together two rooms away from the supernatural horrors, much less fight them. Not to mention he was trapped here with his longtime crush that he was too much of a coward to do anything about. It was as if the universe was taunting him. _Here are all the ingredients for your very own action movie,_ it said. _If only you knew what to do with them._

Roughly, he scrubbed a hand over his face to dispel the frustrated tears threatening to emerge. This wouldn’t do. He _was_ going to make it through this, and so was Jon, and he’d be damned if he let Prentiss get in his head not even a full day after she arrived.

When he came back into the kitchen, Jon gave him a concerned look. “Martin. You didn’t find more worms, did you?”

Martin was startled into a choked, humorless laugh. “No.” He moved to sit on the sofa and then thought better of it; he didn’t much fancy sitting only one thin wall away from Prentiss. Jon seemed to have had the same idea, and had situated himself at the kitchen table again. In view of the door, but nowhere near it if the worst should happen. His gaze was fixed on Martin, intensely and critically enough that he squirmed. “Jon? Do you need anything?” He cleared his throat. “That is, is there anything I can do to help? With all… this?”

Jon blinked, considering. “No, I… don’t suppose so. My reflections on Timothy Hodge have… not yielded any useful results, unless you consider burning down this house to be a productive course of action.”

“Can’t say that I do. Seeing as we’re in it.”

Jon huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Yes, that may not be wise. We’d best consider arson a last resort.” He ran his hand through his hair, drastically accelerating its attempts to escape from his ponytail. “For now, I think we may as well just wait until our absence is noticed. I’m afraid any other attempts to leave will be too risky.”

“Definitely risky,” Martin agreed as another bout of knocking began. He took a steadying breath. “Well, I have some books. If you’d like to pass the time that way.”

“That would be nice,” Jon said. “Thank you, Martin.”

* * *

The next several hours passed surprisingly quickly, all things considered. Prentiss still knocked at seemingly random intervals, and Martin still jumped each time, but just sitting there reading like nothing was amiss proved strangely soothing. It was better, at any rate, than frantically pacing the house in search of anything that might need his attention. The sky had darkened and Martin had conquered about half of his paperback by the time a flicker of movement caught his attention. He looked up in time to see Jon stifling a yawn.

“You can sleep, if you like,” Martin said.

Jon looked almost embarrassed at having been caught. “No! No, I’m alright.” He turned back to his book with the clear intent of pretending nothing had happened.

“Well, you’ll have to at some point. We’ll take shifts. I can keep watch for now.”

Jon fixed him with a scowl. “Really, Martin, I’m fine.”

Martin shrugged. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say.”

Not two minutes later, Jon was yawning again, and giving Martin a warning look that seemed to say _not a word._ Martin raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut.

The third time, Martin took a moment to steel himself and spoke, carefully not looking up from his book. “Take the bedroom.”

“ _Martin-_ ” Irritation was plain in Jon’s voice, but Martin interrupted him.

“There’s no point in tiring yourself out,” he said firmly. He closed his book. “It’ll just be more dangerous if we’re trying to face this half asleep. Don’t be ridiculous, Jon.”

Jon floundered for a second, then clenched his jaw defiantly. His lips were pressed into a thin line. “Fine,” he said, a touch sharply. “But I’ll take the couch.”

“You really want to sleep right next to the door?” Martin asked incredulously.

“I-” Jon rubbed a hand over his face. He looked _tired,_ Martin thought. Jon always looked a bit tired- the dark bags under his eyes seemed to be perpetual and he had that slight drawn look about him- but now it looked even deeper than usual. “No, I suppose not,” he said finally. He stood, but made no move toward the bedroom.

Martin waved a hand. “Go on, then. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Defeated, Jon retreated into the bedroom. Martin called after him, “Oh, er- do you need clothes to sleep in?”

“No.” Jon’s voice was firm. “Good night, Martin.”

Martin smiled. “Good night, Jon.”

If Martin had to guess, it was about thirty minutes later when Jon reemerged from the bedroom. Martin had moved so he could read by the streetlight shining faintly in through the kitchen window, and though he spoke softly, his voice emanating from the shadows visibly startled Jon. “Hey,” he said. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Jon grunted. “No point.” His voice was rough, and in the slivers of light cast across the room, Martin could see that his hair was loose and cascading down his shoulders. It was a strangely vulnerable sight, and it tugged at something in Martin’s chest that he refused to acknowledge. It was the same part of him that had spent several minutes earlier very persistently reminding him that Jon was _sleeping in his bed_ and trying valiantly to construct a mental image. It was no more helpful now than it had been half an hour before.

Martin hummed sympathetically as Jon sank into the sole armchair in the living room. He doubted he would have been able to sleep either, even though there had been a lull in the knocking for the last hour or so. Still, rest was better than nothing, even if it wasn’t sleep, so Martin did not make any further attempts at conversation, instead returning his attention to his book.

It was dark enough in the room and difficult enough to read by the flimsy light of the window that Martin didn’t notice when Jon, curled into what must have been a deeply uncomfortable position in the armchair, finally slipped into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really in it now!! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! We've got loads more awkward jonmartin and domesticity to come, and I for one cannot wait. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's left comments or kudos or bookmarked this work - I notice every single one of you and it makes me feel so appreciated! Y'all make my heart happy.
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: Attempted home invasion, stalking, canon-typical worms, minor blood/injury (attempted worm infestation), isolation.


	4. Observations of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filling the time doesn't come easy when you can't leave the house, have no electricity of any kind, and aren't any good at expressing your emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we all know how much fun it is to be stuck inside, so I'm sure you can imagine how Jon and Martin are doing. Spoiler alert: it's Not Good. Jane Prentiss is having the time of her life, though. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! :)

It was astounding the degree of monotony that could be achieved while being held under siege by a possibly undead worm creature.

Jon had been stuck in Martin’s flat for something like thirty-six hours, and he was already beginning to despair at the volume of reading material Martin had available. If he didn’t pace himself, he’d be reading the collected works of Keats by the time Tim and Sasha finally saw fit to stop by and free them. That, he thought drily, might well be a worse fate than whatever awaited them at Prentiss’s hands.

Martin favored Keats, apparently. Moreover, Martin favored poetry, as Jon had discovered upon inspecting the neat array of books on the shelf. He was learning quite a lot about Martin in a very unprofessional capacity, and he didn’t much care for it if he was honest. So far, Jon had discovered:

  1. Martin not only read but _wrote_ poetry. When questioned about this, he turned an alarming shade of red and mumbled something vague and dismissive. He also, in an uncharacteristic burst of intensity, cautioned Jon not to read any notebooks he might find lying around.
  2. Martin owned not one but two vintage, nonfunctional tape recorders. When questioned about this, he turned an even more alarming shade of red and muttered something Jon was fairly certain had involved the words _retro charm._
  3. There was something citrusy in Martin’s shampoo. This, he had discovered entirely against his will during the fruitless half hour he had laid tossing and turning and _itching_ on Martin’s pillow last night. He was quite determined not to learn any further details about the contents of Martin’s shampoo.
  4. The tea Martin made at home was exactly the same as the tea he made at the Institute. In this vein, Jon found that he had no idea how he himself liked his tea other than that he tended to enjoy what Martin brought him at work greatly. This realization was accompanied by a burst of… shame? Discomfort? Also, he did not know how Martin took his tea. He suspected heaping spoonfuls of sugar.
  5. Other than the volumes of poetry collections, Martin’s flat contained very little personality. There were hardly any photos or paraphernalia about, as though no evidence of Martin’s personal life had ever breached the flat. It made for a disconcertingly impersonal addition to the collection of too-familiar details Jon was gradually amassing.



Altogether, Jon now knew more about Martin than he did about anyone else he had ever worked with except for Tim, and that was hardly to be avoided. Tim was a notorious oversharer, to the point where even Jon, who was really not involved in the majority of socializations that took place around the archives, knew Tim’s hobbies of choice, favorite pubs, and often weekend plans. And even those details didn’t feel nearly so… intimate as those he was now forcibly taking in by proximity.

It simply wouldn’t do to be so unprofessional, even considering the circumstances, Jon decided. As far as he was concerned, Martin was still the bumbling, slightly too-uncoordinated, over-cheerful assistant Jon had seen him as before this whole incident, and when it was all over (because it _would_ be over soon) he would prefer to return to work as usual with their professional relationship untainted by the knowledge of what kinds of spare toothbrushes Martin stocked.

This resolution hit its first roadblock almost immediately when Martin gave him a brisk once-over during lunch and said, all in a rush, “I think you should borrow some clothes.”

Jon could not stop a distasteful expression from twisting up his face. At least he would probably be able to pin that on the blandness of their thawed-then-reheated microwave meal if Martin was too offended.

Offense didn’t appear to be Martin’s first instinct, but he was a bit red about the cheeks. “Look, I, I know you don’t want to, but it’s been, what, three days since you put these on? And we still have one more to go. _At least._ If nothing else, Jon, that- that can’t be _comfortable._ ”

Martin was right about one thing: Jon had absolutely no desire to wear anything but his own clothes. Yes, they had perhaps seen better days, but Jon would be damned if he let this situation strip away his _dignity_ alongside everything else. He snipped, “These are just fine, thank you.”

The look on Martin’s face was not unlike that of a parent faced with a particularly stubborn child refusing to eat their greens, and Jon felt a sharp spike of defensiveness surge through him. Pleadingly, Martin said, “ _Jon._ These are your work clothes. You- you’ve still got my blood on your sleeve, for god’s sake!”

Jon glanced down at his sleeve where there was, in fact, a small constellation of dried reddish-brown specks. He scowled at the stain as though it had personally betrayed him.

Martin appeared to take his glowering silence as the resolute _no_ that it was and sighed. “I’m not going to force you, obviously,” he said in a tone that suggested he regretted ever bringing it up. “Just wanted you to know you can, if you want.”

“I don’t _want,_ ” Jon said, a bit venomously. “ _Thank_ you, Martin.”

Martin _hmm_ ed and returned his attention to his plate, apparently silenced. Jon stewed in the heavy quiet, bristling over the implication that he had to be _coddled,_ coerced into care like a child. He was a grown man, thank you, and had been looking after himself for years with no trouble at all. He didn’t need to be mothered, and _certainly_ not by someone like Martin.

He shoveled the rest of his food into his mouth as quickly as was possible without completely embarrassing himself and excused himself from the table. Martin waved him off cheerfully, evidently unaware of the veritable storm clouds rolling off of Jon. It was almost worse that Martin was always so _bright_ , Jon thought; he felt like a bit, a good deal even, of frustration and outrage and fear was warranted. Seeing Martin in such good spirits even as Prentiss knocked threateningly for what must have been the third time in an hour was enough to set his teeth on edge.

Normally Jon would have poured this frustration into a furious research session or even an unnecessarily aggressive walk outside, but as it was he could only _sit,_ and _read,_ and _wait._ He hated it. Every minute sitting idle set his blood boiling more hotly. There had to be something he could _do_.

Maybe there was, actually. His relentless pacing had led him to within a few feet of the door. If he strained his ears, the slick squirming of the worms was very faintly audible. He hadn’t heard any human sounds come from outside, but then he hadn’t been listening. Maybe Prentiss, or what was left of her, could be bargained with.

With a degree of confidence he didn’t feel, Jon cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Prentiss!”

There was a burst of noise from behind him as Martin leapt up from his chair and hissed, “ _What are you doing?”_

“ _Shut up,”_ Jon hissed back. “Maybe she wants something _.”_

The creature outside the door gave no indication it had heard them. Jon tried again. “Prentiss! Jane Prentiss? We want to talk to you!”

The only responding sound was Martin’s anxious pacing.

“Miss Prentiss, if there’s something you want, we can give it to you! What are you here for?”

“This is a bad idea,” Martin muttered. “What if she breaks down the door?”

Jon flapped his hands at him in a frantic silencing gesture. He strained to hear any change from behind the door.

“Miss Prentiss, I am in a position of authority at the Magnus Institute.” That was possibly a bit of a stretch - Jon’s authority extended over a few rooms of old dusty papers and three assistants in varying degrees of usefulness - but what Prentiss didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “If there is something you desire, I assure you I will do everything within my power to attain it.”

“Is she even still there?” Martin ventured after a few more seconds of nothing.

Jon nodded grimly. “You can still hear the worms.”

Martin fell silent for a moment, listening, before his face contorted into a grimace. “Yep, no, definitely still there. Great.”

“Great,” Jon echoed. Then, more loudly, “I know you can hear me! We could _help_ you!”

“ _Can_ she hear us?”

“Why shouldn’t she? The door’s thin enough.”

“Just-” Martin looked a bit sick. “With all the worms. I thought maybe her ears-”

Jon shuddered and scratched absentmindedly at his own ear. “She seemed to hear us well enough in the basement. I think we can safely assume her hearing is… intact.”

“Ah. Right.”

“I want to help you!” Jon tried one more time, then deflated. “Ugh, what’s the point.”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Martin said gently. He sounded more than a little relieved. “Fancy a cuppa tea?”

“Yes,” Jon sighed, somehow unable to tear his eyes from the door. It felt like if he diverted his attention for just a moment, he would miss the all-important whispered response and doom them both. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Sure, Jon.” There was something odd in Martin’s voice, but a suspicious glance backwards revealed nothing out of the ordinary and the door demanded his attention more urgently.

Several minutes must have passed by the time Jon’s unwavering focus on the door was broken. A steaming mug was pressed into his hands and Martin coaxed him back to the table with a deck of playing cards he had unearthed from somewhere.

“I only know war and bridge,” Jon said a little stiffly. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Martin’s mouth, and Jon’s hackles raised instinctively, but upon second glance it wasn’t a teasing smile. There was humor there, but it felt like Jon was part of the joke rather than the punch line.

With a note of amusement in his voice, Martin asked, “You play bridge?”

“I was raised by my grandmother,” Jon said by way of explanation.

Martin was still smiling. He looked like there was something else he wanted to say, but instead he asked, “How’s Go Fish?”

“I can do Go Fish.”

Martin waited until he had robbed Jon of all his threes, aces, _and_ nines before speaking again. “What was it like, growing up with your grandmother?”

Jon shrugged. “Fine. Uneventful. Give me all your sixes.”

“Go fish. Come on, there must be something. What did you do as a kid?”

He drew a card. Ace of spades. “Not much, really. Read a lot.” He tucked the card neatly into the fan of cards in his hand.

“Hm,” Martin said. “So not much has changed then, has it? Any fours?”

Jon handed over the four of clubs, and his solitary seven when Martin demanded those as well. “S’pose not. Although the reading material is a bit more… _grim_ these days.”

Martin chuckled. “Yeah, I guess most kids wouldn’t be too keen on the kinds of horror stories we deal with.”

_I can tell you quite confidently they aren’t,_ Jon thought. Outwardly, he just nodded. “Rather dark for the average preteen. I’ll take those aces back, now.”

“ _No!_ I was so close with those!” Jon grinned wickedly and held out his hand, palm up, for Martin to deposit the three cards he was clutching. Triumphantly, he laid down his first pair. He may have taken a bit more time than strictly necessary to stack them neatly on the table before him, in blatant disregard of the two tidy piles Martin already had on his side.

When he turned back to Martin with half a mind to bluff and ask for his threes back as well just to see the look on his face, Martin was already looking at him. It was not a gaze of scrutiny, but Jon squirmed anyway. “This is nice, y’know?” Martin said. “Been a while since I just… played cards with someone.”

“Well,” Jon said, throat suddenly unaccountably tight. He tilted his head pointedly toward the door just as another knock came. “I imagine there have been card games in better circumstances.” He rearranged the cards in his hand rather than look back up at whatever that expression was.

“Yeah, sure,” Martin replied, deadpan. “Most of them haven’t been a result of my being trapped in my own flat by something inhuman that wanted to kill me. But still.”

“…do you have any twos?”

Martin rolled his eyes fondly. “Go fish.”

They played on in companionable quiet for a few minutes, broken only by what little speaking the game required. In rapid succession, Jon lost the two eights he had been hoarding and was able to complete another pair. It felt, for some reason, like a time to _say_ things he might not otherwise say. In a film, he thought, this would be the moment to reveal something, in the low light and heavy stillness between them. The quiet was somehow begging for someone to break it with something weighty, and there was the odd fluttering sensation of nervous anticipation in Jon’s chest, even though he couldn’t think of anything to say. Probably for the best, really. There wasn’t any reason for him to disclose any deep secrets to Martin, even if he knew what he would say given the courage.

Martin seemed to be having no such internal turmoil, and gleefully completed three more pairs by the time Jon worked up the nerve to say, “What did you do as a child?” He didn’t know what he’d meant to say, but that certainly wasn’t it. He instantly kicked himself, then kicked himself again as Martin’s face shifted into something… not _closed off,_ exactly, but carefully controlled. It was an expression Jon was very familiar with the shape of. He knew exactly how it felt on his own face.

Genially, Martin said, “I didn’t have a very exciting childhood, really. Got into trouble a fair few times for exploring where I shouldn’t have.”

“Hm. Find anything interesting?”

“Not unless you count the time I was convinced I had found buried treasure. It was really just an old box someone had tossed out.”

“Ah. Sounds like… quite an adventure.” Jon reexamined his cards. “Any jacks?”

Martin forked over two jacks. “It was an adventure. Mum never much liked me wandering off like that, though.”

“Mm. My grandmother was the same. She always preferred for me to stay put. Hence, the reading. Nines?”

“No nines.”

The next card Jon drew was a nine, and he completed his set. The cards were rapidly dwindling, along with any of Jon’s hopes of victory. Martin clearly noticed this as well, and leveled a smug grin at Jon. “I’m taking you down, Sims.”

“This is insubordination. I’ll have you fired for this.”

Martin laughed. It was a bright sound, completely incongruous with the general atmosphere in the room, and Jon half expected Prentiss to redouble her knocking to quell the sound of happiness. And it _was_ happiness, Jon realized. He’d seen him cheerful, but he’d never seen Martin really _happy_. Odd that it was happening now, while they were technically still in mortal danger.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Martin said. “Give me your sixes. I know you’ve got ‘em.”

“You’ll regret this,” Jon warned, and passed Martin all three of his sixes.

“I’m sure I will. But first I’m gonna win this game.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to prevent that, at this point.”

“Hmm, yeah. You’ll just have to accept defeat. And _I’ll_ just have to accept all the queens you’re about to generously offer me.”

Jon shuffled through his hand. “I don’t have any queens.”

“What? That’s impossible.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“How- Am I missing cards? Can you finish your pairs with how many cards are left on the table?”

“I…” Jon did a mental tally. “I don’t think so. Damn.”

“Oh no.” Martin looked genuinely distraught. “Sorry, Jon.”

“Oh, that’s alright. We can just count up how many pairs we’ve each got now.”

“Well, I definitely win then.” Martin frowned. “Doesn’t really feel fair, though.”

Jon contorted his face into an expression he hoped was comforting. “Felt fair enough to me. It’s not as if I would have won if there were a few more cards on the table.” He smiled tentatively at Martin. “Besides.” There was that buzzing feeling of anticipation again, only this time he knew what to do with it. “This was… I enjoyed this.”

The look on Martin’s face was so openly hopeful that Jon had to avert his eyes again. “Yeah?”

Jon shrugged. “It was certainly better than listening by the door for the slightest movement. I must admit, I was… going out of my mind a bit, there.”

“Good.” Martin smiled. “I- I’m glad, Jon.”

He steadied himself for a moment, then said, “We can play again later, if you like.”

“O- Oh! Really? That’s… I mean, yes. I’d like that.”

Jon nodded, at a loss for anything else to say. He’d just performed more needless socialization in the space of an hour than he had willingly engaged in during his entire tenure at the Institute, and it rather felt like he’d filled his quota for the moment.

Thankfully, Martin chose that moment to smother a yawn behind his hand. “I think I might try and sleep for a bit, if you don’t mind keeping watch.”

Jon waved him off. “Yes, yes, go.”

Martin retreated into the bedroom and left Jon in the living room. In his absence, it felt like there was a vacuum, a Martin-shaped hole that Jon didn’t quite know how to navigate the flat around. It must be the first time Martin had slept since they’d been trapped, and Jon fought a brief surge of indignation at the realization that Martin had forced him to sleep when he hadn’t rested at all himself the night before.

Without the steady meter of conversation to measure by, time seemed to swirl nebulously, moving in unpredictable stops and starts. Prentiss knocked a few times, at intervals that might have spanned ten minutes or an hour. Jon caught himself numbly staring at the door several times in between pacing circuits of the flat. After a few repetitions of this, he began to idly stack the cards still scattered on the table. He’d spent many dull afternoons as a child building elaborate card houses, and though it had been at least a decade since he had last attempted it, he thought he made a pretty decent effort.

He’d made use of about three-quarters of the deck and created a tower that he prided on its height if not its stately appearance when Prentiss knocked again, startling him badly enough that his hand knocked into the structure and collapsed it completely. Jon swore under his breath. As he bent to start collecting the cards that had fallen on the floor, there was a sharp clattering from behind him, and before he could even straighten to determine its source, Martin thundered into the room, rumpled and wild-eyed.

“Martin?” Jon whipped his head around to check the door, then the darkened hallway behind Martin, but both appeared undisturbed.

Martin was breathing heavily, his eyes frantically flickering around the room. “I- I thought I heard-” His gaze finally settled on Jon, half-crouched in a mess of cards. “What happened?”

“Ah.” Awkwardly, Jon maneuvered himself upright. “I just… dropped something, that’s all.”

“You dropped… what, a load of cards?”

“Er. Yes. In a manner of speaking.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

Martin seemed a bit at a loss. “It’s fine, just…” He ran his hand through his hair, causing it to stick up at even odder angles than it already was. “You’re sure everything’s alright?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Jon said firmly. “Don’t, ah, don’t let me keep you.”

“I… okay.” Bewildered, Martin disappeared back down the hall, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief. There had been quite enough personal talk today; there was absolutely no need for Martin to find out that Jon was resorting to such childish activities to keep himself entertained.

He didn’t build any more card structures.

* * *

Monday took much longer to dawn than Jon would have liked and suffused the flat with a deep sense of relief and anticipation. It was only a matter of hours before Tim and Sasha realized their absence and came to see what was wrong. For the first time, Jon found himself quite glad that Martin was so friendly and widely liked by the Institute staff; he shuddered to think how long it might have taken to raise concern if he’d been trapped in his own flat without Martin.

It might well take until the end of the workday, Jon knew that. But Martin had assured him that either Tim or Sasha would at least try to text him when they realized he was missing, and his lack of response would be cause for concern. All they had to do was wait.

For several hours, they alternated between disinterested reading and increasingly competitive rounds of Go Fish. It had taken some rather inventive solutions to make the game playable again (a quick count after the card house incident the night before had revealed that four cards were missing, and Martin would not let that stand). They couldn’t simply substitute scraps of paper for the missing cards, as it would be immediately evident which cards a player held. Instead, both jokers were converted into the necessary face cards, and two other cards were drawn at random and edited with permanent marker. The two of hearts now doubled as the five of clubs, and the ten of spades shared real estate with the seven of hearts.

Under the new system, Jon racked up a grand total of four wins, though this paled in comparison to Martin’s seven. Time passed a bit more quickly this way, though they were both acutely aware that each passing minute brought them closer to freedom.

“I wish we could warn them,” Martin said as he shuffled, apropos of nothing.

Jon blinked, caught off guard. “They’re resourceful. They’ll be alright,” he said after a moment.

Martin smiled. It seemed fraught somehow. “Resourceful, huh? Quite a compliment, coming from you.”

He frowned. “Why? It’s true.”

That odd fragile expression still on his face, Martin said, “Well. I’m just saying, it’s probably best it’s them on the rescue mission and not me, isn’t it?”

Jon felt abruptly and entirely out of his depth. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, Jon.” Martin began dealing the cards, not meeting Jon’s eye. “It’s not like it’s a secret you don’t think I’m very good at my job.”

“I- I don’t-”

Martin cut him off. “We all listen to the tapes, Jon. I’ve heard what you say about my work ethic. My _competence._ ”

“Oh,” Jon said through lips that had gone quite numb.

“Anyway,” Martin said quickly, as if he wanted to curb Jon’s chances of getting a word in edgewise. He needn’t have bothered; Jon’s mind had entered a sort of mortified paralysis. “It’s a good thing the _resourceful_ members of our team are the ones who have to deal with this. That’s all.”

Well. The damage was done then, wasn’t it? It was true he didn’t think Martin a very useful assistant, but hearing his own harsh words tossed back at him stung more than he would have expected. There had to be some sort of diplomatic way out of this, to preserve the delicate companionability that was just beginning to blossom between them.

As he sat there in silence, Martin prompted, “Your turn to start.”

Jon did not pick up his cards. Carefully, he said, “It is… true… that your methods of working have a tendency to conflict with mine. But-”

“Jon, you don’t have to-”

“But _recent events_ have shown that I was… incorrect in some of my past remarks. You- you are a good deal more _resourceful_ than I gave you credit for. And if you were in Tim and Sasha’s position, I believe you would do admirably.”

“Oh.” Martin had gone a bit pink. “Um. Thanks.”

“Yes. Well.” Jon fanned out his cards. “I’ll start, shall I?”

“Go ahead.” Martin’s smile reached his eyes this time, and Jon felt he had narrowly dodged a bullet, though he wasn’t quite sure what exactly had been at risk.

When Martin beat Jon handily a few minutes later, the smile on his face felt genuine again, and Jon, for reasons he didn’t bother to examine, was quite relieved.

* * *

As they closed in on evening, the tension in the flat grew increasingly palpable. Jon had no way of telling what time it was, so he and Martin had been making their best guesses by the level of light streaming through the windows. Half six, if Martin was to be believed. Jon’s guess was closer to seven.

“No need to worry yet. It’s Monday,” Martin had said earlier. Jon hadn’t been able to tell which of them he was trying to comfort. “Tim and Sasha never leave later than six thirty on Mondays unless they get a last-minute assignment, and you’re not there to give them any last-minute assignments. They shouldn’t be much longer.”

The sky darkened. Martin had drawn the curtains on the first day on the off chance that Prentiss would try to look inside, and the light that penetrated the fabric grew dimmer and dimmer. Jon guessed eight. Martin, ever the optimist, insisted they were just coming up on seven, and Sasha and Tim were already on the way.

Eventually the streetlight flicked on and fluorescent orange backlit the curtain, drowning out the last scraps of sunset. “What time does that usually happen?” Jon asked.

Martin shrugged. “Maybe seven or eight? I don’t know, it’s not really the type of thing you pay attention to, is it?”

Jon clenched his jaw. He must have looked a sight; all the restless energy he’d been building up for the last several hours had made him twitchy, and he’d picked the hem of his work shirt nearly into disrepair and run his hand through his hair so often it was tangled and mostly loose around his face. A borderline hysterical laugh threatened to burst out of him, but he shoved it down. “I don’t suppose Jane Prentiss has a watch?”

Martin didn’t answer, focused as he was on the tiny sliver in the curtains through which he could see the street. “Maybe they’ve already seen Prentiss and went to get help."

“Maybe.”

When Martin turned to face him, Jon felt like he already knew what was coming. It was the same question that had been knocking around in his head for hours, the one he hadn’t voiced for fear of sounding too bleak. Sure enough, Martin said, “What do we do if they don’t come?”

“They will come,” Jon said, more confidently than he felt. “Certainly soon, if not today. All we can do is…” he sighed. “Wait.”

“Yeah.” Martin sounded mournful. “Just wait.”

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. Maybe that was why Jon found himself saying, “They will come for you, you know. Tim and Sasha… they obviously care for you.”

“Thanks.” Martin sounded marginally less somber now, though that might have been wishful thinking on Jon’s part. Then, more cautiously, he said, “They care about you too, Jon.”

Jon huffed a disbelieving laugh. “That’s a nice sentiment, Martin.” He didn’t say _but_ out loud, but it hung in the air almost tangibly.

Martin frowned indignantly. “ _Jon._ I’m serious.”

He fixed Martin with an unamused look. “You can’t honestly believe that if it was me trapped in my flat alone, anyone in the archives would come looking for me.” He’d been thinking it for hours, but saying it out loud gave the words a new weight. He was… alone, really. By choice for the most part, yes, but _alone._ The knowledge settled in his chest heavily. He let it.

Martin looked like he’d swallowed something sharp. If Jon didn’t know better, he might have thought that was hurt in his eyes. “ _I would!_ ” he burst out. He sounded entirely distressed. “I’d come for you, Jon, and Tim and Sasha too! I’m- we’re your _friends_!” Hesitantly, as though faced with a cornered animal rather than his boss, Martin reached out a hand. He let it hover in the space between them like he was waiting for Jon to flinch away, then rested it lightly on Jon’s shoulder. “Please believe me,” he said, and something in his voice sent a sharp pain lancing through the heavy sadness behind Jon’s ribs. With a look of fierce determination, Martin locked eyes with him. “ _We would come for you._ ”

“I-” Jon’s voice stuck in his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been spoken to with such open affection. Maybe Georgie? God, that was long ago. More to the point, he couldn’t believe it was coming from _Martin_ , of all people. Gently, as if aware of the shockwave he’d just sent through Jon’s system, Martin swept his thumb back and forth on Jon’s shoulder. This only served to startle him in a different way, but it did dispel the remaining cold from his chest. Jon cleared his throat and tried again, a bit stiffly. “Thank you. I… don’t know if I can believe you. But thank you.”

Martin smiled sadly and withdrew, blushing a bit. Jon was sure he was flushed too; displays of emotion always did humiliating things to his complexion. “Right,” Martin said. His voice was cheerful again, for which Jon was immensely grateful. He didn’t know if he could have taken more gentleness just then. “Tim and Sasha had better come, now that I’ve promised they would.”

Jon chuckled. “Yes, it wouldn’t do for you to lie to your boss.”

“Absolutely not. Fireable offense, that.”

To hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Jon made his way back to the window. It was a pretty transparent maneuver; the glow behind the curtains was entirely artificial now and did little to improve visibility beyond gilding the outlines of vague shapes. He couldn’t see a thing. If Martin noticed, he didn’t comment. In fact, Jon confirmed with a subtle glance that Martin had stationed himself at another window where the visibility was probably equally bad. That was… comforting?

So they were back to watching for the moment. More than once in the following minutes, Jon became convinced he could see the tiny, glinting shapes of worms writhing on the pavement. On two separate occasions, he was on the verge of alerting Martin when his eyes readjusted and the shapes resolved themselves into odd shadows or small reflections of a streetlight. He shuddered. This place and its accompanying paranoia would drive him mad before long.

Hoping to distract himself from the itching that had started on his arms again, Jon spoke into the silence. “Must be at least eight now.”

Martin sighed. Jon couldn’t make out distinct features in what little light penetrated the room, but he imagined a frown. “Probably closer to nine,” he admitted. “We… may have to wait another day.”

Jon had already guessed this, in the back of his mind, but the words still reverberated through him like nails being driven into a coffin. He let out a long, slow breath. “Martin?”

“Yeah?”

Defeat had already settled over him like a thick, cold blanket. If he were going to give up any other battles, the time would be now. “If… if the offer still stands, and you don’t think me too dreadful a hypocrite- I mean, I am a hypocrite, but if you’ll forgive me my hypocrisy-”

“Spit it out, Jon.”

“Might I borrow some clothes for the night after all?”

“Oh.” Martin appeared to just be staring at him, though the darkness smoothing his features may well have been disguising any number of expressions. The words to take it back were already on Jon’s tongue when Martin’s silhouette shuddered abruptly, as if he was shaking himself, and he said, “Y-yeah, course. I’ll grab you something.”

Martin left the room, and Jon spent the minute or so he was alone in the living room letting his next words percolate in his mind. He got them more or less queued up in an acceptable order by the time Martin reemerged, and at the sight of him, they burst out almost without warning. “I shouldn’t have snapped about the clothes before.”

At the same time, Martin said, “They’ll be too big, I’m afraid. Oh.” He gestured to Jon. “You go ahead.”

“Oh. Er.” His brief preparations hadn’t taken him quite this far. “I just… it was uncalled for. And rude.”

“Yeah, it was, a bit,” Martin said. He sounded more confused than anything. “It’s alright, though. I get it.”

“Well. It was a kind gesture, and it certainly didn’t merit the response I gave.”

Martin shrugged and dumped the set of clothes in Jon’s arms. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, these’ll probably be massive on you, but I don’t have anything smaller. Sorry.”

“That’s, that’s fine. Thank you.” Jon edged toward the bedroom. “I’ll just…”

“Oh!” Martin stepped aside. “Yeah, of course.”

Being inside Martin’s bedroom wasn’t getting any less strange, but Jon ignored this as best he could and discarded his clothes quickly. It was dark enough that he couldn’t inspect Martin’s clothes in any detail, but there was a soft, thick-knit jumper (which Jon immediately put on backwards and got tangled in) and a pair of sweatpants. They absolutely swam on him, but Jon would be lying if he said they weren’t vastly more comfortable than his work outfit, which in addition to being speckled with Martin’s blood was admittedly giving off a bit of an odor. In comparison, Martin’s clothes were a warm, heavy weight that instantly set Jon yawning. Evidently he wasn’t accustomed to much comfort, if this was all it took to leave him drowsy.

He ambled back into the living room and all but collapsed into the armchair. Martin gave him a look that was both bemused and something else Jon couldn’t identify. “They fit alright?” Martin’s voice was slightly strangled, as if his throat was closing up. Hopefully he wasn’t coming down with something; it would be deeply inconvenient to have to deal with illness under these circumstances.

“Yes, they’re fine. Thank you, Martin.”

“Sure.”

Pleasantries done with, Jon leaned his head against the back of the chair. His eyes began to drift shut almost immediately, and the last thought that crossed his conscious mind was that if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that was fondness in Martin’s eyes. Had he been more awake, it might have shocked him how little he minded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed the anxiety and emotional turmoil the boys are experiencing right now, even if they don't. Things will get better for them eventually, I promise!
> 
> The response I got to the last chapter was so lovely and so much bigger than I expected - thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos!! You guys are singlehandedly providing me with the motivation to keep writing. Speaking of which, the next chapter will be up July 9th, and I can't wait to see what you guys think! :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: very minor descriptions of Jane Prentiss/body horror, indirect references to neglectful childhood.


	5. Assorted Supplements [01]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prentiss knocks. Jon and Martin wait for salvation. Time passes so, so slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a different format for this chapter, so I'm excited to see what you guys think! I don't want to rush through their time in the flat, but more than that I feel like doing it any other way would drag things out too much. 
> 
> Also, programming note here: I have this fic loosely divided into three sections in my head, and the first section (which I've been thinking of as the "statement" section) will conclude with chapter 6, so that's exciting! And there will be plenty more content to come after that, so stick around!
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes. Enjoy! :)

_Monday, February 29 th, 2016. The archives. _

“Night, Sasha!” Tim called cheerfully on his way out.

“Night, Tim!” came the answering shout from somewhere amidst the maze of filing cabinets. Then, “Oh! Wait a sec!”

Tim swiveled and slowed into a backwards walk. “Yeah?”

Sasha’s head popped almost comically up from behind a towering stack of unfiled statements. Tim snorted. “Did you end up hearing anything from Martin today?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.” He waved his phone as evidence. “Texted him during lunch today, apparently he’s got some kind of a bug.”

Sasha frowned sympathetically. “Poor Martin. Is it the flu? I hear that’s going around.”

Tim’s backwards walk bumped him into a desk and he stopped, opting instead to hop up and sit on it. “Not sure. Sounds pretty rough, though. It didn’t sound like he was gonna be back tomorrow either.”

“Yikes.”

“Yikes is right. I told him to go to the doctor, but he just said something about staying home for a while. He must be pretty out of it, actually. His texts were kinda funky.”

“Wow. D’you think we need to check in on him?”

He grimaced. “Maybe when he’s feeling a bit better. If we all get sick, he’ll just be sick _and_ guilty. You know how sad a guilty Martin is to be around.”

“Oh, _so_ sad _,_ ” Sasha agreed. “Those puppy dog eyes! You’re right. He probably won’t want much company anyway, if he’s that out of it. I’ll ask if he’s feeling up to seeing us tomorrow.”

Tim made a show of searching the room for other people. To his audience of zero, with as much flair as he could muster, he said, “We all heard that, right? Tim Stoker is right? Can I get that in writing?”

“Oh, go away.” She rolled her eyes at him fondly and ducked back behind the filing cabinet.

“Already go-one!” Tim singsonged in the most annoying voice he could, just to hear Sasha’s mock-exasperated “ _Good!”_

With a smile and a single backwards glance, Tim walked out of the Archives.

* * *

_Tuesday, March 1 st, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood._

Starting to ration food felt a little too much like admitting defeat for Martin’s taste. He knew it was the logical choice, of course; he’d even been the one who broached the subject with Jon. But it was still a deeply unpleasant acknowledgment of the direness of their circumstances.

“Listen,” he’d said that morning, hating every word as it left his mouth. “We don’t actually know how long we’re going to be in here. If nobody came yesterday, we can’t be sure when they will. I’ve only got so much microwave stuff.” Jon had just nodded solemnly and begun opening Martin’s cabinets seemingly at random to extract all his nonperishables.

_Only so much microwave stuff_ turned out to be enough for the next four days, if he and Jon started splitting single-serving meals. After that, there were a few cans of beans and plenty of peaches. Martin was very much hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“Why in the world do you have so many canned peaches?” Jon asked. The table in front of him held a neat pyramid of tins, none of which apparently expired until June 2018. Martin figured if they were stuck that long, they’d have bigger problems to deal with than expired peaches.

“I have no idea,” he said, baffled. His leading theory was that periodically, he saw canned peaches at the store, thought _ooh, peaches might be nice,_ and returned home to put them on the shelf alongside all the other peaches he’d bought and never eaten. He didn’t think Jon needed to know that, though. Instead, he said, “I guess they were on sale at some point.”

“Hm. It’s a good thing they were. This’ll be enough to keep us fed for quite a while if necessary.”

Martin grimaced. “Yeah, I’ve been told the all-peaches diet does wonders for your health.”

“That so?” Jon pushed his sleeves back up to his elbows and began lining up a new row of cans. “What sorts of benefits can we expect?”

It took Martin a moment to realize Jon was waiting for an answer. His attention span had been completely shot all day; lending Jon his clothes was having the unexpected side effect of leaving him feeling like he’d been punched in the chest each time he watched Jon do something like roll up his far-too-large sleeves. It was adorable and heart-wrenchingly domestic, and Martin was beginning to realize that he may well die an entirely un-worm related death soon regardless of whether they got rescued. He wanted to see Jon looking warm and comfortable in his clothes every single day, preferably _not_ while under worm-induced duress, and he had arrived at a sort of constant low-level state of mourning that this would never happen.

Jon had asked him a question. Jon was looking at him expectantly. Martin blinked, belatedly processing what the question had even been. “Uh. Well, we- we’ll be safe from scurvy, at least!” He laughed weakly.

“Oh.” Jon gave him an odd look. “Yes, that’s true. I hadn’t considered scurvy.”

“A-and you don’t need to, either. What with… all these peaches.”

The odd look on Jon’s face resolved itself into poorly disguised amusement. “Yes,” he said, a smile threatening at the corners of his lips. “What a lucky development.”

Martin was absolutely going to die here if Jon started smiling, even if it was at his expense. His fingers curled into his sleeves to keep from reaching out and doing something ridiculous like touching the curl of Jon's lips as he said, “Be luckier if we don’t have to start the all-peaches diet at all, if you ask me.”

It was both a relief and a crushing loss when Jon visibly sobered. “Of course. I don’t expect it will come to that.”

Never one to be excluded from a conversation, especially a vaguely hopeful one, Prentiss knocked.

Exasperated, Martin called, “ _Yes,_ alright, we can hear you!” in the general direction of the door. There was no response, of course. He turned back to Jon with a sigh. “I don’t suppose a good telling off would do the trick.”

Precariously, Jon balanced another can of peaches on his latest pyramid structure. “If it did, we might have fewer people coming in to give statements. Although I suppose most people’s first instincts when they see a supernatural entity aren’t to begin lecturing it.”

Martin had a feeling he was currently sharing a flat with one of the few people to whom lecturing would occur as a defense mechanism. On the off chance they were on the brink of a revolutionary development in protection against the paranormal, he shouted, “Prentiss! It’s very rude to trap people in their homes, you know! I’ll be lodging an official complaint!”

Jon leaned across the table and whispered, as though to avoid Prentiss overhearing, “Out of curiosity, who exactly are you lodging this complaint with?”

Matching Jon’s low tone, he said, “Oh. Uh. I don’t- Oh!” A single laugh escaped him. “You know, I think the most appropriate department might actually be… the Magnus Institute.”

For a long moment, Jon just stared at Martin blankly. Then, abruptly, he laughed.

It was unlike anything Martin had ever heard from him. There was maybe an edge of hysteria there, but the underlying sound was low and loud and rich, and it was all Martin could do to stare in wonder. Jon’s face was surprised and _smiling_ , openly smiling, and something constricted painfully in Martin’s chest. He did not want this to end.

Before long, though, Jon’s laughter tapered off into a more respectable chuckle and he seemed to gather himself. Slightly breathlessly, he said, “Are you suggesting we work in a _paranormal complaints office?_ ”

“I mean,” Martin said, through a broad grin. If this was the kind of reaction he got, he was most certainly going to enjoy the joke to its fullest extent. “Think about it! What is a statement, really, if not a _complaint_ about an encounter?”

It seemed he had just caught Jon a bit by surprise before; there was no renewed swell of laughter, much to Martin’s disappointment. There was, however, a slight quirk to his lips and an amused crinkle to his eyes that had definitely not been there before. Martin practically glowed with delight. 

“Well,” Jon said, humor plain in his voice. “I must confess I’ve never read a statement in which the subject seemed _happy_ about their experiences.”

“Exactly,” Martin said with no small measure of satisfaction. “Therefore…” He spread his hands in front of him. “Complaints office.”

“Hard to argue with that.”

Martin grinned.

Even when Prentiss began knocking again with renewed fervor in response to the almost cheerful atmosphere in the flat, and he had to run to check that the blanket under the door hadn’t been dislodged by the force of her pounding, that little kernel of happiness refused to fade.

Tim and Sasha didn’t come that evening.

* * *

_Wednesday, March 2 nd, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood._

Jon was normally quite fastidious about his showers. He took one religiously every morning at seven sharp so he could be out of the flat at precisely seven thirty (excluding the mornings where he woke having dozed off at his desk and ended up working in yesterday’s clothes).

Being trapped in Martin’s home disrupted this routine somewhat.

This was not because he could not use Martin’s shower; in fact, Martin had told him very early on, in no uncertain terms, that he should feel free to use it whenever he saw fit. It wasn’t even because of the positively hyperborean temperature of the water. As the power was still out, the water heater was nonoperational and the late winter chill permeated the pipes, turning each attempt at a shower into an exercise in self-discipline and determination. No, Jon could put up with cold showers (though these showers were really exceptionally cold. He often emerged with numb fingers and toes and a single-minded desire to wrap a thick blanket around his shoulders).

The only thing really holding him back was the paranoia.

It was silly, he kept trying to tell himself. If Prentiss’s worms were going to try to make it inside through any sort of plumbing, there were much more convenient outlets than the showerhead. The faucet in the kitchen sink, for one. He had gotten into the habit of resting his eyes on one of three places whenever he sat idly in Martin’s living room: the sink (in case of worms), the door (in case of worms), or Martin (in case of worms. Jon didn’t fully trust the scabbed-over wound in Martin’s hand). But as unlikely as he knew it was, Jon couldn’t get anywhere near the shower without picturing worms squeezing out through the nozzles like so many thick, writhing drops of water and burrowing into his naked skin.

It was far more plausible that if a worm did find an entrance to the plumbing, it could emerge through the shower’s drain or even the faucet in the bathroom sink. This was a fear that had Jon in a state of perpetual motion even more than the frigid spray of the water; he constantly ducked his head back and forth past the curtain to the sink, back inside to the drain, back outside to the sink, and so on until he was more or less clean and could leave. It was exhausting.

When Martin asked why he looked so jumpy after one such shower, Jon admitted his concerns and was able to watch in real time as a wave of queasiness washed over Martin’s face.

“I’ve thought about the shower drain too,” Martin said. “Never considered the sink, but I guarantee I’ll be thinking about that now too.”

Jon cringed. “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s better to be aware of it. But maybe we should be blocking those off when we’re not using them? Just in case?”

Jon was nodding before Martin could even finish. “Definitely.”

It was a matter of minutes to affix hand towels to the offending openings, and Jon felt a bit better. It didn’t stop him throwing paranoid glances at the drain, but he and Martin got in the habit of going together whenever a sink or drain needed to be uncovered so their ability to crush any waiting intruders would be doubled, and that did put his mind at ease slightly. It was easier to mentally prepare to face any number of horrors when he knew he wouldn’t be facing them alone.

All the comforts and security measures in the world couldn’t stop him screaming when, later that afternoon, he watched a single silver, shining worm squeeze its way out of a floor vent that had gotten partially uncovered. It was reduced to a slick greyish smudge under his heel barely a second later, but he was still in a state of mild hysteria for the better part of the next hour as he and Martin frantically checked and re-checked every single vent and opening the flat had to offer.

“Was it just the one?” Martin asked breathlessly as they searched.

“I- I think so. I would have seen it if there were more, it-” He laughed humorlessly. “It’s not like they tend to _hide,_ or anything. They would have come for me. I would have seen that, I think.”

Martin had paused his inspection of the kitchen sink to level a concerned look at Jon. “Maybe you should check there aren’t any on you.”

Instantly, as if a switch had been flipped, Jon’s entire body itched. He fled wordlessly to the bathroom and didn’t take a proper breath until he’d ensured twice over that nothing was amiss.

It had been _upsetting,_ to say the least, to realize that Martin hadn’t even noticed when a worm had burrowed into him that first day. And yes, this had been in quite a rush of adrenaline, and it was true that Martin perhaps wasn’t the most observant person Jon had ever known, but it was enough to have him anxiously checking his arms and legs with near-obsessive frequency. He trusted even Martin to notice when an unnatural parasite was trying to nest inside his skin. The idea that the creatures could be so subtle as not to be noticed at all was… abhorrent.

When he reemerged from the bathroom, skin newly reddened with anxious nail marks under his borrowed clothes, Martin was standing dutifully over the vent through which the worm had crept.

“All clear?” Martin said by way of greeting. He didn’t sound overly worried; the lack of a bloodcurdling shriek from the bathroom was probably evidence enough that Jon hadn’t found anything.

“Clear,” he confirmed. “Anything else come through here?”

“No.” Martin took a deep breath. “I think maybe we should secure this vent better, though. Isn’t this the same one where a worm came through at the start?”

Jon cringed at the memory. “Yes. How do you propose we secure it?”

“Well,” Martin said hesitantly. “These grates just pull out of the floor. We could… lift it up, wrap it in a sheet, and put it right back in?”

Jon stared. “You just want to open up a hole in the floor?”

“Look, I- I don’t like it either,” Martin said. “But this just isn’t secure. And- and there are two of us. Even if one or two come through… we can deal with that.”

“It’s not one or two I’m worried about, Martin,” Jon said stiffly. He could practically see the pulsing, squirming wave of worms pushing through the grate just as they had come through the door. He had seen that wave in his dreams for days. His breath was growing short.

“I know, I know.” Martin sounded a bit downtrodden, but not surprised. “We don’t have to. It was just a thought.”

Jon forced himself to breathe deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth, fighting the spasmodic contractions of his ribs. After a moment, he said, “How do we do this.” His voice came out much steadier than he expected, and he mentally congratulated himself.

Martin’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He clearly hadn’t expected any sort of acquiescence, no matter how reluctant. This was nearly enough to make Jon panic again – had Martin only suggested this because he knew Jon wouldn’t agree and he wouldn’t have to go through with it? Was he putting them both at risk by doing this?

“We can lift the sheet off first to see if there are many behind it. If there are, there’s not really much point to this.” Martin sounded… relatively calm. Methodical. Jon’s heart rate slowed marginally. “Then, if it’s clear, one of us can lift the vent while the other wraps it in the sheet. If any worms come out, we’ll both crush them. How, uh… how does that sound?”

Jon found himself nodding.

“We’ll have to be fast,” Martin said. “Would you rather lift or wrap?”

“Uh. Lift, I suppose?”

“Lift it is. Ready?”

Jon was not even a little bit ready, but he steeled himself regardless as Martin carefully peeled back the sheet covering the vent. There was nothing obviously alive behind it, just darkness. Though that dark might have been concealing any number of horrors. “Okay,” Jon said. Cautiously, he reached for the vent. “I’ll just...”

“Watch your hands!” Martin shouted, and then there was a foot coming down a mere few centimeters from Jon’s fingers. Jon flinched. “Sorry, sorry,” Martin said. He lifted his foot to reveal a crushed worm. “What do you think? Too risky?”

He gritted his teeth. “No,” he said with no small effort. “We should do it.”

“Oh! Okay!” Martin said, visibly heartened. He shook out the sheet, and Jon’s whole body tensed with the expectation of worms falling out of the folds and to the floor with that wet splat. Nothing happened, though, and Martin held the sheet aloft at the ready. “Go ahead, then.”

For a moment, Jon just stood and stared at the vent, waiting for the creature that would spell his doom to emerge. Nothing happened, and in a burst of courage, he dug his fingernails under the edges of the vent and pulled it up for Martin to wrap. It was a fumbling, awkward tangle of arms and hands and fabric, and Jon swore he could hear the slick, squirming sound that haunted his every waking moment. The second Martin let go of the sheet, Jon all but slammed the vent back on the ground, frantically fitting it back into the opening. There was a terrifying second where the edges of the grate didn’t line up with the edges of the hole, and he was sure it wasn’t going to fit and he was too slow. Then it slid into place and he scrambled back to his feet, where Martin steadied him.

“You okay?” Martin asked. “That went pretty well, I think!”

Jon patted down his arms and legs before answering. “I’m alright. Did any come through?”

“Just one more. I already got it.” Sure enough, there was a second smear on the floor by Martin’s feet now. Jon’s jaw clenched involuntarily at the sight, and he took a step back. It must have come quite close to him while he fumbled around on the floor. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Hey,” Martin said. “Thank you. I, uh. I couldn’t have done that by myself.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” He took a deep breath and let some of the adrenaline filter out of his system. “It’s a good thing you’re not stuck here alone, I suppose.”

The look Martin gave him then might have been something akin to wonder. “Yeah.” He met Jon’s eyes earnestly. “It really is.”

Nobody came that evening, either.

* * *

_Thursday, March 3 rd, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood._

Martin ate his first can of peaches on the sixth day, not out of necessity but because his breakfasts for the last several days had consisted of strong cups of tea and not much else, and he wanted a change. The house was quiet; Jon was dozing fitfully in the armchair he’d apparently claimed as his bed of choice, the kettle was murmuring in the background, and Prentiss hadn’t knocked in a while. It felt almost like a normal weekend morning, if he could ignore the fact that 1) he was reasonably sure it was Thursday, 2) he had woken hours, not minutes ago to keep watch while Jon slept, and 3) most of Martin’s normal weekend mornings did not involve Jon in any capacity. Or murderous worm women, for that matter.

It wasn’t normal; of course it wasn’t. But things had become routine enough that Martin didn’t jump when Jon startled awake with a sharp intake of breath and immediately started throwing nervous glances around the room. His hair was tangled and his eyes were wide, but he visibly relaxed when he saw Martin sitting calmly at the kitchen table.

That was something Martin had never dreamed of: he knew the best way to calm Jonathan Sims down after a nightmare now. The trick was to act as relaxed as possible to prove that nothing from the dream haunted the waking world. Of course, he would have liked to find out if a gentle touch had the same effect; every time he watched Jon wake from restless sleep, his fingertips tingled with the desire to run them softly along Jon’s back or even through his hair. God, his hair. Martin had a frankly unreasonable amount of fantasies about getting to stroke his hand through Jon’s hair. But he was clearly in no position to do any such thing, so he just smiled warmly at Jon and said, softly, “Morning. Same one again?”

Jon slumped back into a more relaxed position in the armchair. It was probably telling, that he looked more at ease now that he was awake than when he slept. “No, actually. No worms this time.”

“Oh. Well, that’s- that’s something new, at least. What was it?” He instantly blushed beet red. “I- if you want to talk about it, that is. You don’t have to.”

Dully, as if reading from a script, Jon said, “Statement of Naomi Herne. Regarding the events following the funeral of her fiancé, Evan Lukas.” He blinked, and the last vestiges of sleep cleared from his eyes. He frowned.

“What, that woman who came in a few weeks ago? You just… dreamed her statement?”

“I… in a manner of speaking. Yes.”

“Huh.” Martin had long suspected that this line of work couldn’t be good for the mental state, but this was an unexpected symptom. Jon must be even more desperately in need of a restful night than he had thought. He held up his tin. “Peaches?”

“Oh. Are we out of regular food already?”

“Oh, no, we’re fine until…” He did a mental calculation. “Saturday. I just thought they might make a nice breakfast. Y’know, get your vitamins in and all that.”

“Right.” Jon squinted. He had left his glasses on the kitchen table. Apparently he was quite nearsighted, which Martin found unaccountably charming. Solidarity with his own poor eyesight, maybe. “Today’s Thursday?”

“Yeah. Want some?”

Jon heaved himself upright in the chair, letting the blanket Martin had stealthily draped over him slide to his lap. “Alright. Thank you.” He made to get up, but Martin said, “Oh, stay there. I’ll get it.”

He snagged Jon’s glasses on his way and handed them to him along with an opened can and a fork. “I’m not an invalid,” Jon grumbled, but accepted and stabbed at a peach.

“I’m ordering bed rest anyway. You look exhausted.”

Jon muttered something indeterminate, and Martin counted it as a victory. The least he could do during this whole nightmare was make sure Jon didn’t pass out from exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes had only gotten darker in the last few days, which was really saying something given Jon’s tendency to work late into the night and show up early the next morning anyway. He had a feeling Jon was sleeping even less here than he let on. He never used the bedroom, and his brief stints in the armchair (which Martin knew from experience was not built for sleeping) were never longer than a few hours, if he was even actually sleeping for those durations. It wasn’t like Martin was sleeping especially well either, but at least he had more color in his face than a corpse. The same could not exactly be said for Jon.

It was as Martin was trying to find a way to break this to him delicately that Jon said, “I’ve been dreaming of Naomi Herne every night since her statement.”

Martin frowned. “Oh? I thought you were dreaming of Prentiss.”

“Her too,” Jon sighed. “Both, most nights. But always Herne. Always the same.”

Martin just waited quietly, unsure if Jon was done. There was a long pause.

“I can never help her,” Jon said eventually. “I always try. But her grave is too deep.”

Well, that was unsettling. “I’m sorry,” Martin said, opting not to ask about the grave. “That sounds awful.”

“More so for her than for me, I’m afraid.”

“Still awful for you,” Martin said with conviction. “They’re nightmares. That’s plenty awful. But… you did help her, you know?” He scooted his chair a bit closer to Jon. He was close enough to touch him if he wanted to. “You took her statement. You listened to her. A- a lot of these people I’ve talked to, the biggest thing they wanted was for someone to listen. You gave that to her.” Heart pounding, Martin laid his hand on Jon’s arm. He was still warm with sleep and tensed slightly at the touch, looking down at Martin’s hand as if to confirm what he was feeling. Martin was about to apologize and move away, face aflame, when Jon relaxed and let out a long breath.

“I do hope it helped her,” he said. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I made it worse, somehow.”

“I don’t see how you could have.” Feeling bold, Martin gave Jon’s arm a gentle squeeze.

“Well.” Jon sighed. “Anyway. This is beside the point.” He stood, leaving Martin’s hand to fall awkwardly onto the arm of the chair. “Prentiss certainly demands our attention more insistently than an old statement.”

Martin knew deflection when he heard it, but he also knew well enough not to pry. “Does it seem like she’s been knocking less recently?” he asked instead.

“Hard to say.” Jon stretched, and Martin averted his eyes; his clothes on Jon were baggy enough that nothing was even remotely visible, but looking felt indecent anyway. Through a yawn, he went on, “I’ve tried to note the intervals when I can, but it’s unreliable at best. We still have no way to tell time, and she appears to be quite irregular. As much as I wish this wasn’t the case, I don’t think a pause in knocking is indicative of anything.”

“Figures. That felt like wishful thinking anyway.”

From his position by the kettle, Jon made a vaguely affirmative noise and said over his shoulder, “Up for a game of cards?”

Martin smiled. “What’s the score, again?”

“I believe it’s twenty-two to sixteen.”

“That’s right,” he said mock-thoughtfully. “I remember now. I was leaving you in the dust.”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid you’re misremembering. I was in the middle of a triumphant return to victory.”

“You can hardly return to what you never had,” Martin said sweetly.

Jon dumped the cards on the table, his eyes already bright with what Martin had come to recognize as a competitive spark. Smiling, Martin began to shuffle (Jon’s shuffling abilities left something to be desired, so the task had been summarily assigned to Martin), and Jon said, “You’re all talk. Show me some results, and you can taunt me all you like.”

“Gladly.”

Martin nearly forgot to take up his vigil by the windows that evening, even as the sky darkened and Prentiss’s knocks continued to echo through the flat like a death knell.

Not that it would have mattered, anyway. Tim and Sasha didn’t come that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Fun fact: research for this chapter led me to try to learn the actual shelf life/nutritional value of canned peaches, and this led me to a file called "How to Survive on Canned Peaches". "What a godsend!" I thought, and used my university account to access it on JSTOR only to find it was a misleadingly titled memoir of some guy who lived on a farm. My search history is so full of peaches. 
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words and kudos - this fic is giving me something to do during quarantine, and seeing people react positively to it is hugely motivating!! I'm always genuinely excited to post new chapters bc of you (especially chapter 6, one of my favorites so far) :))
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: paranoia, attempted home invasion (minor), canon-typical worms, food shortage, isolation


	6. Assorted Supplements [02]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A variety of unpleasant truths are confronted, from the emotional to the culinary. Nothing changes; everything changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really long one!! It turns out I have a lot of thoughts about what it must have been like in the latter half of Martin being trapped in canon, and I couldn't help inflicting all that on the boys here too. On that note, this chapter is much more emotionally intense than past chapters have been, and not necessarily in a good way, so please read with caution! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

_Saturday, March 5 th, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood._

Days were becoming hard to keep track of. Jon had a firmer grasp on them than Martin did; he was doing his best to keep records on all of Prentiss’s activities, which of course were meticulous enough to be dated. Martin wasn’t quite sure what there was to record besides _entity knocked again today, more forcefully than yesterday_ , but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to have some sort of written record left behind in case the worst happened. It was a morbid thought to have, yes, but living with the constant threat of death (or worse, infestation) meant that morbidity was very much the course du jour.

All this was to say that when Martin, in a moment of disorientation, asked Jon for the date and was told it was Saturday, he was disproportionately rattled. He must have looked quite stricken, as Jon asked, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Martin whispered, though he felt anything but.

“Forgive me if I’m unable to believe that,” Jon said dryly. “You look- well, for lack of a better expression, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Martin huffed a laugh, but it came out dry and humorless. “No, no ghost. I just… didn’t realize it was Saturday already.”

Confusion twisted Jon’s features. “Big plans?”

“Not exactly. But-” His voice sounded strangled, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Saturdays are usually my days to go visit my mother. That’s all.”

“Oh.” When Martin dared to meet Jon’s eyes, there was sympathy there. It was almost more than he could take. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin forced a placid smile. That was what he was used to doing when it came to his mother, anyway. Why should this Saturday be any different? “That’s, uh, that’s alright. I just realized I missed last Saturday, too, with… everything. It’s just a… a _commitment_ I’m not too keen on missing.”

“Yes, I see,” Jon said. He looked a bit far-off now, as if deep in thought. It was an expression Martin had seen on his face a thousand times, usually while he was being waved away after bringing in a cup of tea before Jon had finished a statement. After a moment, Jon asked, “Is there a chance she’ll notice your absence and report you missing?”

Jon might as well have dropped a boulder into the pit of Martin’s stomach. His lips began tugging downward of their own accord in that awful way that always heralded tears as he whispered, “No.”

She would likely be relieved. Happy, really, that for once she didn’t have to put up with her nuisance of a son. Martin could practically hear her voice in his head, sternly informing him that _there’s really no need for you to be here so often, I’m better taken care of here than I ever was before anyway,_ and _I wish you wouldn’t hover so, Martin._ Well, she had her wish now, didn’t she? Two weeks without him must have been like Christmas. Martin very much doubted that she was telling any of the other residents that her son hadn’t visited – acknowledging that she had a son seemed quite out of character for her – but if she was, it was likely in the context of how glad she was to have some peace and quiet for once.

Martin’s breath hitched, and he fixed his eyes on a point somewhere behind Jon in an effort to keep the threatening tears from emerging. Roughly, he scrubbed a hand over his face, effectively dislodging his glasses, and took a shaky breath.

“Oh. Oh, no,” Jon was saying, sounding more panicked than anything now. In his periphery, he could see Jon’s hands half-extended in front of him, obviously lost. “Christ, that was- are you… I mean, obviously not, but I…” He trailed off helplessly.

“Sorry,” Martin tried to say, but all that came out was a garbled squeak. He felt behind himself for the armchair and sat heavily, letting his head drop into his hands and taking deep, shuddering breaths that didn’t help to unravel the knot in his chest. He hated that this was happening in front of Jon, he hated that he couldn’t get his mother to love him, he hated how distinctly he remembered promising to return next week that last Saturday and hearing her dismissive reply-

A warm weight touched his shoulder, which trembled with the effort of holding back the full-blown convulsions of sobs. Jon’s hand. Martin didn’t even have it in him to blush.

“I can go. If you’d prefer to be alone,” Jon said from above him, more softly than Martin could remember ever hearing him speak. Not trusting his voice, Martin shook his head. He had never, not once in his life, preferred to be alone. It was just that usually, that wasn’t a choice that was offered to him.

That thought finally broke the dam. He began to cry in earnest, great shuddering sobs wracking his frame and leaving him curled over his knees, clutching his glasses in one hand and his face in the other. He was quiet; Martin never cried audibly if he could help it. The only sound was the dull, wet, repetitive noise of his hitching breath.

“Alright,” Jon said gently. “Alright.” His hand remained on Martin’s shoulder, doing nothing more than delivering a series of awkward pats every few seconds but somehow steadying Martin nonetheless.

It took several minutes for Martin to rein himself in again, and by then he wasn’t even crying about his mother anymore. Not entirely, at least. He cried because he was stuck in a horror movie and completely helpless, because he had been _so sure_ Sasha and Tim would come for him but he was beginning to suspect they never would, because he was bloody in love with Jon and too much of a coward to do anything about it. A lot of things hurt in that moment, and Martin cried for all of them.

When eventually his tears ran dry and he was left with only his white-knuckled grip on the frame of his glasses and a splotchy, tear-streaked face to show for it, he couldn’t make himself meet Jon’s eye. Instead, he made a beeline to the bathroom and dried off his face, throwing only a fleeting glance in the mirror to ensure he didn’t look as dreadful as he felt. He didn’t, but only marginally.

Jon was awkward for the next several minutes, clearly afraid to say anything lest he set Martin off again. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so embarrassing, and rather than address it Martin put the kettle on. He had a feeling they could both use a nice cup of tea after all that.

Over steaming mugs of Earl Grey, Martin finally forced himself to say, “My mother doesn’t like me visiting much. She won’t miss me.” That was an understatement. The words still stung, but Martin’s eyes stayed dry.

Jon looked at him warily and sipped at his tea. “You don’t have to-”

“Oh, I’m not,” Martin interrupted. “I… I don’t really want to talk about it more than that? Just… she won’t call.”

“Okay,” Jon said. To Martin’s great relief, there was no pity in his eyes when he said, a moment later, “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Martin clutched at his mug and let the heat seep through the ceramic and into his hands. The tea did little to dull the leftover pain, but it certainly didn’t hurt either, and as the minutes dragged on and his mug gradually emptied, he found that the wound didn’t feel quite so raw anymore.

Nobody was going to come on a weekend, anyway. Instead of waiting by the window when the sky darkened that night, Martin fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of hundreds of tiny worms burrowing into his flesh. In the dream, his throat was so full of them that he couldn’t even scream when he finally burst back into consciousness.

* * *

_Sunday, March 6 th, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood._

“More peaches?”

Martin paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and grimaced. “Yeah, yesterday was our last day of regular meals. Remember? Peas and rice?”

Jon ran a hand through his hair. It was always a bit of a mess, especially since he had taken the Head Archivist position, but lockdown had really taken its toll. Martin could have sworn the strands escaping Jon’s messy ponytail were a good fifty percent more silver than last week. Which wasn’t to say it didn’t suit him; Martin had always been quite charmed by the distinguished, almost professorial aura Jon gave off. But that was hardly the point.

“Oh, I remember fine,” Jon said. There was a sort of affected lightness in his tone that Martin frowned at. “I suppose I just hadn’t registered until this moment that _that’s_ really all we’ll be eating.” He gestured distastefully at the can in Martin’s hands.

Martin speared a slice of peach and chewed it thoughtfully. “S’not that bad, really. They’re sweet.” Jon just wrinkled his nose. “Besides,” he continued. “I’ve been trying to think of it as breakfast for dinner. Feels a bit more exciting that way.”

“Sure,” Jon scoffed. “Tell you what, when you’ve had nothing but peaches for a week, tell me how exciting it feels then.”

Martin flinched. “I’d like to believe we won’t be here for the next week, thanks.”

“Right, right.” Jon held up his hands as if in surrender. “Anyway, did you just list sweetness as a point in the peaches’ _favor_? You can’t be serious.”

Mildly affronted, Martin said, “Why not?”

Jon contorted his face into an exaggerated visage of disgust. “It’s _sickly._ I can practically feel my teeth rotting each time I eat one of those things.”

Martin _hmm_ ed, and popped another peach in his mouth just to see Jon’s face. He made a little _ugh_ noise of revulsion, which made the admittedly over-sweet sting on Martin’s tongue well worth it. “Just think of them as sweets,” he advised. “Like you’re eating dessert, or something.”

“I don’t even like sweets. And they’re preserved in _sugar water,_ ” Jon griped. “That’s vile.”

“Well,” Martin said. “If you absolutely can’t stand it, we do have that can of beans left over that we were saving. Just the one, though, so you might want to savor it.”

Jon sighed. “No, let’s save it.”

Something registered retroactively with Martin, and he frowned. “Did you say you don’t like sweets?”

“Never have, really.” Jon shrugged.

Martin stared at him incredulously enough that after a moment, Jon added defensively, “I’ll eat… I don't know, dark chocolate, or what have you. Most sweets are just too sugary.”

He spluttered. “I’ve been making your tea sweet since- since I’ve been making you tea!”

“Oh.” Jon frowned. “I never noticed, really. I don’t, uh… I don’t tend to make myself tea much. The difference wasn’t obvious.”

“Okay, okay.” Martin had set his peaches aside entirely to free his hands. He gestured emphatically at Jon with his fork. “Setting aside that you don’t make yourself tea – you’re the poshest person I know, you call yourself an Englishman? –are you telling me I’ve been giving you tea you hate for _months? Jon!_ ”

Jon looked mildly intimidated, though that may have had to do with Martin’s increasingly wild fork waving. “I _don’t_ hate it,” he protested. “I wouldn’t drink it if I hated it.”

Martin found that hard to believe, not out of faith in Jon’s unwillingness to offend but out of the knowledge that if Jon was fully immersed in a statement, Martin could probably bring him a cup of hot saltwater and he wouldn’t notice anything amiss. Charitably, he did not say this out loud. Instead, he gave a put-upon sigh. “I’ll make you one that’s not sweet next time. You’ll like that better, probably.”

“Again, I _do_ like the tea you’ve been giving me,” Jon said stubbornly. “But… thank you. That’s very considerate.”

“That’s me,” Martin said. Under his breath, he added, “Martin ‘Considerate’ Blackwood.”

Jon snorted but did not comment.

That evening, Jon volunteered to take the first shift. Martin suspected he just didn’t want to go to sleep, as vivid as his nightmares had evidently been of late, but didn’t object.

He did, however, brew a pot of tea before turning in, leaving the teabag to steep much longer than usual and stirring in only a bit of sugar (he couldn’t in good conscience add nothing; Martin found plain tea disgusting, but for obvious reasons he couldn’t put in milk) before handing the mug to Jon and quipping, “We can’t have you falling asleep on the job.”

He only paused in the hallway long enough to glance over his shoulder and see Jon smiling faintly into the mug.

* * *

_Monday, March 7 th, 2016. The archives._

Sasha arrived in the break room just as Tim was about to leave, but at the sight of her he promptly decided filing could wait a few minutes and flung himself back onto the couch. “Sasha!” he cheered. “Where’ve you been all day? I had to eat lunch all by myself.” This was said with a Broadway-worthy pout, which Sasha completely ignored as she seated herself at the small table opposite the sofa where Tim lounged.

She groaned and dropped her head unceremoniously on the table. Her hair fanned halo-like around her head. Muffled, she said, “I just spent _two hours_ taking an obviously fake statement from some uni kid here for a laugh.”

Tim groaned in sympathy. “You couldn’t just send them away?”

Sasha lifted her head enough to meet Tim’s eyes with a look that spoke of months rather than hours of torment. “I _tried. So many times._ But Elias was right there for some reason, and every time I tried to ask some pointed questions he gave me this really intense look. I’d rather interview an annoying kid than lose my job.”

“Why does Elias care? I thought taking statements was-” he curled his fingers into air quotes and adopted a deeply snobbish accent- “ _better left to those in the research position_.”

“No idea.” Sasha, apparently reanimated, propped her chin on her hand. “All I know is I get why Jon has such a vendetta against fake statements now. _So_ much more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Was it a good lie, at least?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not even close. He tried to convince me that one of the professors at his school was a ghost and laughed at himself every few sentences.”

Tim clicked his tongue in disapproval. “That’s just lazy. At least put some effort in, if you’re going to try and scam a whole organization.”

“ _Right_?” Sasha said emphatically. “I’ll be glad when Jon’s back to take statements again.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Have you heard from him, by the way? He’s not answering my texts.”

Tim spread his hands in a universal _who’s to say_ gesture. “I’ve tried calling him. Straight to voicemail. Speaking of which, he’s got the single most old-man voicemail imaginable. There’s a pause at the end where he can’t figure out how to turn off the recording.”

Sasha laughed. “Ironic.”

“ _But_.” Tim continued, lifting his hips off the sofa to extract his phone from his back pocket. “I did text Martin the other day, and he said something about Jon being sick, too. It was pretty funny, actually - I think he must be completely out of it on flu meds.”

“Aw, poor Martin,” Sasha said sympathetically, watching Tim scroll through his messages. “Is he feeling up to visitors yet? It’s been ages.”

“Oh, definitely not. I asked him yesterday and got shot down point-blank. I’ve never been so painfully rejected in my life. But let me… here!” Triumphantly, Tim offered his phone to Sasha, who pursed her lips as she read and then laughed.

“ _The Archivist has a parasite?_ Who’s texting you and what have they done to Martin?”

Tim grinned broadly. “Weird, right? Apparently flu-medicine-Martin is both weirdly formal and much bolder than regular Martin. Usually he’d never just tell me not to come over like that without apologizing a thousand times and offering up his first-born child or something.”

“I hope he’s okay,” Sasha said. “How’s this- if he’s not back by next week, we go to see him whether he likes it or not. He could probably use some moral support.”

“Good idea,” Tim agreed. “As long as he doesn’t get us sick too. He already got Jon. Which, by the way, I wonder how that happened, huh? Maybe there’s something going on there he isn’t telling us?” He accompanied this with a conspiratorial raise of his eyebrows.

Sasha gave him a look. “Probably the tea, Tim.”

He deflated slightly. “Okay, yeah, that would actually make sense. But apparently Jon is talking to him and not to us. You can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t,” Sasha said with a begrudging smile. “God, I pity them both if anything ever actually happens between them. You’ll be insufferable.”

Before he could retort, she added, “No, actually, I take it back. You’re already insufferable. I can’t imagine what the stage beyond this is.”

He grinned. “You can apologize to me at their wedding.”

“Why do I bother,” Sasha said, but smiled.

* * *

_Tuesday, March 8 th, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood._

Jon had spent the last several minutes in intense deliberation.

About an hour ago, he had sat down with one of Martin’s less tedious novels. (Or what passed for an hour in a flat with no working clocks or discernible way to tell time. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say he had sat down two knocks ago.) As far as Martin’s collection of literature went, even the less tedious volumes were tedious and a touch too whimsical for his tastes, and by the time he had worked his way through two chapters and looked up, Martin had made his way into the kitchen and just… sat on the floor.

He didn’t have the faintest clue how to handle this. Martin couldn’t be said to look _happy_ , of course, but neither did he appear to be overtly distressed. He simply sat there, back against the wall, eyes fixed on some invisible point across the room. His lips were slightly downturned in a way that belied deep thought, and his arms were folded over his bent knees in an upright sort of fetal position.

Jon had no idea how Martin would react if he spoke. In his head, he constructed a wide variety of scenarios from snapping to sobbing. The snapping, he dismissed out of hand; that was much more in the range of something Jon would do if abruptly jerked out of his thoughts. Martin was much nicer than him, so it could be assumed that any response that might be reasonable for Jon was out of the question for Martin. Tears seemed more likely, and that was also an eventuality Jon was quite keen to avoid. He didn’t know how to comfort people in the best of times, and these were hardly the best of times. He’d been confronted with Martin crying once before, and had been so clueless about it all that he’d just about resolved to flee the room the next time any sort of emotions were displayed.

He could probably say something. Maybe he should, even. If there was anything Jon had learned about Martin during their forced cohabitation, it was that Martin dealt with his problems by talking about them. This seemed like a problem. So the best course of action would be to speak.

His lips wouldn’t move. Instead, he found himself just looking at Martin. He had been doing that a lot recently, usually frantically as he checked for worms or over the kitchen table during their many, many games of cards. (The score was thirty-eight to thirty-four. Jon would take the lead soon, he was sure of it.) He had even looked while Martin was asleep on occasion, when sitting alone in the kitchen became too much and he had to check and make sure the itching across every inch of his body was unfounded and he wasn’t about to start living this nightmare alone. Thankfully, he had never been noticed while doing this. He wasn’t sure how he could explain that to Martin.

But this was different. He wasn’t looking with the intent of scanning for worms or to ease the crawling nerves in his gut. He was simply looking, puzzling over the strange blankness on Martin’s face and thinking of how much he would like to just pull whatever he was thinking out of his head.

Unfortunately, he was not bestowed with mind-reading abilities, and so had to resort to more human methods.

Decisively, Jon stood. His chair slid back with a squeak, and the noise was enough to jolt Martin from his stupor. Martin looked up at him, smiled weakly, and said, “Hey.”

Jon did not reply. Instead, he walked over to where Martin was sitting and lowered himself to the ground beside him, leaning against the wall with a sigh. There was a cabinet directly behind him, the handle of which dug painfully into his back. He could feel Martin’s eyes on him, wary and confused.

There was an odd energy in the air between them for a moment as Jon searched for whatever far-off point Martin had been staring at and Martin stared at Jon. After a minute, though, he heard Martin sigh beside him and resume his original position, this time with his chin resting on his crossed arms.

For all his resolve to sit down and talk, Jon found that he had absolutely no idea what to say. He felt out the shape of several opening questions on his tongue, but everything felt blocky and awkward, so he didn’t say a word. As it turned out, he didn’t need to; eventually, Martin spoke into the quiet.

“Nobody’s coming, are they.”

Ah. That did explain the bleak expression. If Jon was honest, it was a bit rattling to hear this kind of dejection from Martin, who had been practically singlehandedly responsible for morale since Prentiss arrived. His throat tightened, and he swallowed.

“I… I don’t know.”

There was nothing but horrible, heavy silence. Jon itched to say something, anything to at least create the illusion that things were going to be okay, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. He just tipped his head back to lean against the cabinet and sighed, trying and failing to ignore that his stomach was doing its level best to recreate what he imagined getting stabbed with a rusty blade would feel like. At least now he could see the merits of Martin’s thousand-yard stare.

“It’s been _eleven days_ , Jon,” Martin said, voice faraway and dreary. “Don’t you think if someone was coming, they would have done it by now?”

Jon took a deep breath. “It’s not over.” He couldn’t keep the bleakness out of his own voice.

Martin laughed. It was a terrible sound. “No,” he said. “It’s not over. I’m starting to think it won’t ever be over.”

_Of course it will,_ Jon wanted to say. _Of course they’re coming. Don’t say that._ The unspoken words left a bad taste in his mouth. His lips hung open, desperately trying to close around any words that would ease this awful ache. He couldn’t say any of it.

“Don’t… we can’t give up yet,” he managed finally. “If we give up, she wins.” Jon wasn’t entirely sure when it had become _we_ and not _you_. He did know, however, with the certainty of a knife in the gut, that if Martin lost hope he would be soon to follow.

“I know,” Martin said, a sad little exhale. “I know. I’m not giving up, I just…”

Jon dared a sideways glance. Martin’s face was pinched, lips drawn downward, the perfect picture of a man gritting his teeth against a vast existential pain.

“I’m just _tired,_ ” Martin admitted. “I’m so tired.”

Jon let his head thud dully back against the wall. Roughly, he said, “I know.” It was a bit of an effort to add, “I’m tired too.”

“She’s not tired.” Martin tilted his head in the vague direction of the living room. “Why isn’t she tired, Jon?”

“Why indeed,” he muttered.

“It’s not fair.”

Jon chuckled lightly at Martin’s plaintive tone. “No, I’m afraid it’s not.”

“Are you going to tell me that’s how the world works?”

“That _is_ how the world works. But, no. Only that… well.” He gave a halfhearted shrug and tried very hard to inject some levity into his voice. “There are two of us and one of her. She hasn’t won.”

Martin leveled a dry look at Jon. “You are aware she has about a thousand worms, right?”

“Well aware, thank you.”

“And that if we tried to fight her we’d be killed or infested?”

Jon shivered, but nodded. “Most likely.”

Martin made a half-amused, half-dismissive noise. “Alright then. As long as we’re on the same page there.”

“I know our odds.”

Jon wasn’t facing Martin, but he could still feel Martin’s eyes on him. It was a look that gave him the distinct sensation he was being deciphered, like he was a puzzle Martin was trying to put together. Whether or not he succeeded was unclear; after a moment, Martin just went _hm_ and Jon felt the gaze slide off him.

It was quiet for a while after that, save for one of Prentiss’s less impressive knocking sessions. Jon and Martin sat in quiet solidarity, neither of them apparently willing or ready to move, even when a small shift caused Jon’s spine to twinge and reminded him that he was still leaning heavily on the handle of a cabinet. _One more for the list,_ he thought with resignation. His shoulders were already tight from too many nights curled in an armchair. One more ache didn’t matter enough to make him get up.

It could have been minutes or an hour later when Martin, without looking over, leaned in and bumped his shoulder against Jon’s. The gesture sent an unexpected flood of warmth coursing through him. It had been… quite a while since he’d been on friendly enough terms with anyone to warrant a casual touch like that, a touch that could have meant _thanks_ or _it’s okay_ or _I’m with you._ Perhaps he had, quite by accident, become friends with Martin without even realizing it. Wasn’t that a thought.

His head was still spinning with the possible ramifications when Martin, with a muted groan and a truly horrifying cacophony of popping joints, stood and began to make a cup of tea. Then he offered one to Jon on the floor. Because friends did small favors for each other. Good lord. Despite it all, it was a rather nice feeling, and Jon may not have entirely trusted it but smiled into his teacup anyway.

One weak, possibly reciprocated sense of camaraderie against a world of monsters.

Jon almost liked his odds.

* * *

_Thursday, March 10 th, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood. _

Jon hadn’t been sleeping well.

It didn’t take a professional to deduce that – if Martin were to stop passerby on the street and say _excuse me, do you think this man’s getting enough sleep,_ they would likely take one look and reply _oh God, no, is he alright,_ and Martin would say _no, I don’t think he is,_ and they would hurry off in the other direction – but Martin was intimately familiar with this detail because every single night, Jon slept in the armchair in the living room which was directly in Martin’s line of sight when he sat at the kitchen table to read. Each night, he saw how Jon tossed and turned, squirming and scratching at his arms and bending to retrieve the blanket when it slipped off his shoulders, only going properly still for a few minutes at a time.

It couldn’t be restful, and the ever-darkening rings under Jon’s eyes only served as further evidence. He was starting to look like he’d had a fight with some eyeliner and lost. Which- Jon in eyeliner? That was an image. But the point was, Martin was more than justified in his repeated attempts to get Jon to sleep in the bed.

Jon had gone with minimal argument a few times. Getting him into the bedroom wasn’t the problem; keeping him there was. Invariably, anywhere between fifteen and forty-five minutes later, Jon would come back out looking like he hadn’t slept a wink, collapse into the armchair, and fall as close to deeply asleep as he ever did without even pulling the blanket over himself. Not that Martin minded that task falling to him. _Not the point._

He wasn’t sure what Jon’s aversion to the bed was, but given the antics he had put up over borrowing a set of clothes, Martin could imagine it had something to do with his deeply ingrained sense of decorum. That was all well and good, but Jon was visibly sleep-deprived and if he began complaining about those knots in his shoulders he was always rubbing at through Martin’s sweater, Martin wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to do something stupid like offer to massage his stiff muscles.

So it was, ironically, in the sense of self-preservation that Martin said again that night, “Why don’t you go ahead and take the bed.”

“I’m perfectly fine in the chair, thank you, Martin,” Jon said crisply, just as he did every time Martin made this offer. 

It was routine for Martin to huff and reply, “You’re clearly not sleeping well, Jon. That chair is _not_ comfortable.”

“This is perfectly adequate.” Stubbornly, Jon sat himself in the chair and fumbled briefly for a comfortable position – Martin almost snorted at how beautifully that proved his point – before settling under the blanket and shutting his eyes.

He really could be ridiculous sometimes, Martin thought around the swell of fondness in his heart. For a few seconds, he allowed himself just to look, taking in the pouty little frown on Jon’s face, the dark curtain of hair framing his face, the way his hands clutched childlike at the blanket.

Then, amused, he said, “Jon, you- you’re clearly not asleep. Come on, take the bed.”

Jon’s scowl deepened almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t open his eyes. Martin had to smile. “Jon, you’re still wearing your glasses.”

At this, Jon’s eyes did crack open, and he shifted himself upright mumbling something that might have included the word _damn._ Luckily, Martin managed to smother his silly grin by the time their eyes met. Jon said, “I’ll sleep here, Martin. I can’t… it doesn’t make a difference to me where I sleep.”

“Well,” Martin said reasonably. “Then it should be fine for you to sleep in the bed, shouldn’t it? So long as it doesn’t make a difference?”

“I-” Jon stopped short, clearly unprepared. He floundered for a second, then sighed. “Fine. If you’ll stop pestering me about it, fine.” He stood, and Martin patted him on the back in mock sympathy.

“Your neck will thank me,” he said, nudging Jon toward the bedroom. Unconsciously, Jon stretched his neck in response, and the resulting grimace was more than enough to convince Martin he had done the right thing.

As Jon disappeared down the hall, Martin gave a small self-satisfied smile and settled in for the next few hours. Uncomfortable as the armchair was for sleeping, it was Martin’s preferred reading spot, and there was just enough light filtering in from outside to make out the words by. It almost felt like _Jon’s chair_ at this point, Martin thought as he began to read. Who would have ever thought he’d have a _Jon’s chair_ in his flat?

The minutes dragged by, and more and more Martin found himself unfocused on the book, his fingers itching instead for a pen. He hadn’t written anything in quite a while, mostly because Jon was always around and he would rather the ground swallow him up than Jon read his poetry. Now might be an opportunity, though, with Jon asleep (or pretending) and the night still young.

Full of resolve, he stood to collect his notebook and a pen, and almost immediately hit himself in the forehead. His notebook was in his bedroom. Of course it was. Could he risk sneaking inside to retrieve it? Jon probably wouldn’t be asleep yet, he reasoned. At the very least, he wouldn’t be waking him from too deep a sleep.

Or he could wait. This proved an undesirable option after only a moment; the longer he waited, the more words seemed to bubble up inside him with nowhere to go, and the more potentially _good poetry_ he wasted. This was worth it. Cautiously, avoiding the floorboards he knew to be squeaky, he made his way through the door Jon had left cracked and into the darkness beyond.

“Martin?”

Martin jolted, then sighed. He should have expected this. “Sorry,” he said lowly. “Just a sec.”

In the dim light, Martin could make out that Jon had propped himself up on one elbow. His eyes glinted in the dark, reminding Martin quite distinctly of a cat.

“Is everything alright?” Jon’s voice was slightly groggy, but alert enough that Martin knew he’d startled him. A wave of guilt washed over him.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, locating his notebook on the small desk. “I just forgot something. Go back to sleep.”

Jon made a noise of understanding, then said, “Your notebook?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah. I was gonna write something.”

“Hm.” Martin heard more than saw Jon settling back down beneath the blankets. There was silence. Martin assumed this was dismissal and had almost made it back to the door when Jon said, “You can write in here, if you like.”

The sheer unexpectedness of the offer caught Martin entirely off guard. He certainly hadn’t told Jon that he preferred to write in his bedroom; in fact, he didn’t much care where he wrote. It was such an odd statement that he spent a moment entirely frozen before stammering out, “Oh, that’s- that’s fine, I wouldn’t want to bother you. I’ll just-” He put his hand on the doorknob.

“I’m not bothered,” Jon said evenly, and didn’t seem inclined to elaborate any further.

Martin was deeply thankful for the cover of darkness. His face was hot, and he was very sure he was flushed an unattractive red. What was Jon playing at? Completely perplexed, he found himself saying, “A-alright? But let me know if I’m too loud or- or anything, yeah?”

In a bit of a daze, he stumbled to his desk and sat. “Yes, I will,” Jon said, sounding bored. As if he’d just dismissed Martin from his office. It was inexplicable. Martin flipped open his notebook to a blank page and found that all the words that had been brewing a minute ago had completely evaporated from his mind. Just as well; it was far too dark in this room for him to write. For the sake of something to do, he scratched his pen in the margins.

From the bed, Jon sighed deeply. Martin froze, sure he was about to be reprimanded, though he had no idea for what. Nothing came, though, and as his eyes gradually adjusted he could make out a motionless lump of blankets on the bed. There was no way Jon was asleep. Martin fully expected him to change his mind about the bed twenty minutes in, as he always did.

There was no way to tell for sure if he was awake, though, so Martin just sat statue-still at his desk in hopes that he’d be quiet enough for Jon to actually get some rest. No point in leaving now- the sound would only alert him again and they could start all over again. He did not write. He scarcely dared to breathe. There was something fragile here, nameless yet, and he would be damned if he didn’t do all he could to protect it.

It was possible Martin’s perception of time was skewed, but he thought it must have been a good fifteen minutes of dead silence before he dared to move again and set pen to paper. When the first sounds of a few cautious marks on the page didn’t disturb Jon, he relaxed a bit. Hard as it was to believe, he might truly be sleeping.

It took a long time for Martin to unwind enough that he was able to write, his pen softly, blindly scratching against paper in the dark. The poetry he wrote wasn’t much good, he could tell that much, but it felt important somehow anyway.

Later, in the morning, when light began to penetrate the curtains and Jon shifted for the first time in hours, Martin would jump and slam the notebook shut to hide his hours’ worth of scribbles and errant lines of verse. He would watch Jon blink awake in his bed, strangely peaceful, and see the moment he remembered where he was and that Martin was there. He would calmly wish Jon a good morning, yawning a bit despite the thudding of his heart in his chest, and turn in for a nap himself.

But for the moment, he just sat hunched at his desk, mere feet from Jon’s sleeping form, determinedly plodding through poem after poem in an effort to drown out the clamoring thoughts that begged to know why the first time Jon actually slept in his bed was when Martin was in the room with him.

* * *

_Saturday, March 12 th, 2016. Residence of Martin Blackwood. _

Jon’s heart was in his throat. He was at the door, properly up against it, closer than he had dared in over a week. Martin was immediately behind him, hovering with a tangible nervous energy that thrummed in Jon’s fingertips and had him anxiously shuffling his feet.

It was so quiet.

Things had been quiet before, but never in the way they had been when Martin shook him awake about three hours prior. This was a deeper silence. It was the kind of ear-ringing stillness that accompanied leaving a too-loud room and left him more acutely aware of the lack of sound than he had been of the noise.

“I can’t- I can’t _feel_ her anymore,” Martin had said as he woke Jon, stammering like never before and wide-eyed. “There’s not- I don’t know how I could feel her before, maybe- maybe the smell? But now I, I _can’t_ , and- can you feel it too?”

Jon had bolted upright. Instantly he was listening, shutting his eyes to try and focus on that distinctive slimy sound that was their constant backdrop in reality and his dreams, and he found nothing.

He had heard nothing in the hours since, and it was possibly the most unnerving thing he had ever experienced. Martin was right about a smell, too. He hadn’t been even remotely aware of any unusual odors, but the air in the flat felt cleaner. Easier to breathe.

All signs pointed to Prentiss being gone, but one look at Martin told him he trusted the situation about as much as Jon did. She could be lurking behind a corner, trying to lull them into a false sense of security, ready to strike the moment they opened the door. The smallest crack in the door could be as good as signing a death warrant.

For all his nerves, though, Jon had an eerie sense that the danger had passed. He wouldn’t have liked it, but if pressed he would have put money on the fact that Prentiss was no longer behind that door. _Why_ was another story. He hadn’t the slightest clue what could have made Prentiss so abruptly decide to abandon her post, and that unsettled him most of all.

Ear pressed against the door, Jon dared to say, “Maybe we should move the blanket.”

“Yeah,” Martin said warily. “Let’s, uh, keep it at the ready though? Just in case?”

“Of course.” Jon gritted his teeth and crouched down to lay his hands on the quilt. “Ready to stomp, if you need to?”

“Ha. No.”

Jon glanced up at Martin, who was eyeing the blanket with trepidation. Martin’s eyes flickered to Jon’s, and he sighed. “I know. Go ahead.”

Jon took one long, deep breath, in and out, and lifted the quilt. He was so ready to hear Martin yell that the ensuing silence was shocking in its own right. Hesitantly, he peered down beyond where the quilt obscured his vision to find… nothing. There wasn’t a single worm, not even a straggler hidden inside the folds when he gave the blanket a cautious shake.

He and Martin shared a look, the meaning of which couldn’t have been clearer. _Do you trust this?_

Jon wanted to trust it. He couldn’t remember ever having wanted anything more. But there still wasn’t a force on Earth that could have convinced him to open the door in that moment.

Stunned into silence, they just stared at the door until Martin said, all in a rush, “I think I’m gonna look under it.”

Jon blinked. “Under it?”

Martin was already lowering himself to the ground, gradually until he was flat on his stomach and had his cheek pressed to the floor. Jon made a dismayed sound. It was all too easy to imagine what could happen to Martin in that vulnerable position. He _really_ didn’t fancy the idea of prying worms out of Martin’s face.

“I can’t see anything,” Martin reported, slightly muffled against the ground. “No, no worms, no Prentiss, nobody’s shadow or anything on the other side.” He lifted his head enough to look up at Jon. “I… I really think this might be it.”

Jon became aware that he had a white-knuckled grip on the quilt in his hands and forced himself to loosen it. His joints ached with the intensity of his grasp. “What do you suggest?” His voice sounded strangled. “Is it safe to open the door?”

Martin stood and looked Jon dead in the eye. “I don’t know. But this may be the best chance we get.” There was a fierce sort of determination in Martin’s gaze, which Jon found oddly comforting. Resolve solidifying, he nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

In shifts, they prepared as though they wouldn’t return to the flat. This mainly consisted of tugging on shoes as quickly as possible (Jon dug out his work shoes from the depths of Martin’s bedroom where they had been discarded and wished fervently that they were better suited to running) and finding his phone where it lay forgotten since that first day. If he was able to charge it, they could call someone in an emergency.

Eventually they stood fully equipped by the door, Martin clutching an old fire extinguisher as if he intended to hit Prentiss over the head with it. Jon had to admire his resolve.

“Okay, here’s what I think,” Martin said. “One of us opens the door, right?” He looked to Jon for confirmation and went on, “The other takes a look outside. If Prentiss is there, run back inside and we close the door. If not, we both take off running.”

Jon gave a chuckle that was more anxiety than humor vocalized. “Sounds quite simple when you put it that way.”

“Are you in?”

“I don’t believe I have much of a choice.”

Martin stilled and turned to look at Jon very seriously. “You do, you know,” he said. “I think this is the best shot we have. But… if you say no…” He looked a bit pained. “We can wait.”

“No, no,” Jon said quickly. “I just… well. I suppose I’m a bit nervous. That’s all.”

“A _bit_?” Martin smiled. “You’re miles better off than I am, then. I’m terrified.”

It was visible in his eyes, Jon realized. There was a bright spark of fear in Martin’s gaze that Jon was sure was reflected tenfold on his own face.

The knowledge that he wasn’t the only one afraid was what finally gave him the strength to give Martin a final nod and stride to the door. He laid his hand on the doorknob and, behind him, Martin brandished his fire extinguisher. “On three,” he said. “One, two…”

He opened the door.

Martin strode purposefully through it, and Jon could see him frantically scanning the area as he held the extinguisher aloft. Several dreadful seconds ticked by in which Jon’s grip on the doorknob tightened incrementally, sure that at any moment he would have to slam it shut behind Martin.

But Martin did not run back inside, and Jon’s heart beat loudly enough that he almost missed Martin calling over his shoulder, “All clear! Jon! Let’s go!”

He didn’t give himself time to think before he was running. He had the sense to slam the door shut behind him, and then they were off. His blood pounded in his ears as he ran blindly after Martin, who led with as much purpose as he had the night they had first run from Prentiss. This time, though, they were running in broad daylight, blurring past confused pedestrians and probably drawing all kinds of stares but not stopping to look. The cold, fresh air felt strange on Jon’s face after so long in the flat, and the wind whipped him heavily enough that tears pricked his eyes.

Jon didn’t recognize a single street, but Martin clearly did as he ducked and weaved past passersby and around street corners. After several minutes, Martin waved his hand for Jon to stop on a street corner sparsely populated with café-goers and the like. In tandem, they bent to brace themselves on their knees and breathed heavily.

After a moment, Jon caught his breath enough to ask hoarsely, “Where are we going?”

“The Institute,” Martin gasped. “Figured… you’d want to go there.”

Jon cast a nervous glance around the street before answering. “Yes, that’ll be fine.” Someone bumped into him, and he whirled around, completely shocking a businessman touting a coffee cup. The man held up his hands in an apologetic gesture, and Jon ran an anxious hand through his hair. His breathing had calmed somewhat, so he turned back to Martin and asked, “Ready?”

Martin still looked slightly winded, his face splotchy and red, but he nodded and took off again at a moderate pace.

Looking back, the rest of their flight to the Institute was a blur. Jon turned corners and dodged people on sidewalks for a long time, and then suddenly he was standing in front of a familiar brownstone structure and Martin was tugging him up the steps and inside. He barely registered Rosie’s voice, a wordless exclamation of shock before she asked, panicked, “Martin? Mr. Sims? Are you alright? Do I need to call someone?”

_I didn’t know Rosie worked weekends_ , he thought numbly as Martin said something vaguely placating involving the words “call Sasha” and started heading down to the archives. Jon just stared after him, a strange sort of motionless jitteriness overtaking him as all the events of the last hours came crashing in on him at once.

He heard Martin say his name as if from underwater, and then a warm hand enclosed his wrist and tugged him further into the building, down to the break room. Dazed, Jon sank onto the weathered couch and felt the seat dip as Martin sat beside him. Neither of them spoke for a long time. It was over.

It was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of an era! Thank you so much for reading - part one of this adventure is over, but the fic is definitely not and will continue next Thursday as usual! Jon and Martin still have a lot to experience, and I'm very excited to get into post-Prentiss dynamics. Also, this fic has taken over my life much more than I expected and I now have a writing doc where I've cracked 30k words (!!) and a planning doc that extends through chapter 10 so far (it's ~color coded~), all of which is hugely exciting for me and wouldn't have been possible without all of your lovely support. Thank you.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: mentions of emotional abuse/childhood neglect, feelings of hopelessness/isolation, food shortage, paranoia.


	7. Case #0161203

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Statement of Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims, regarding a close encounter with the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Supplemental materials attached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally out of the flat!! Writing this was honestly so weird - I put Jon and Martin in a room with other people and instantly my writing ability was thrown off its rhythm so thoroughly that it made me think of those videos of animals who wear shoes for the first time and forget how to walk. Wobbly-legs syndrome aside, I hope you enjoy this chapter, there's a lot going on here that I've been building up to for a while! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

“What the _hell_ happened to you two?”

Martin jumped and looked up to see a familiar silhouette in the doorway. “ _Sasha!”_ He leapt from the sofa, its old springs protesting loudly, and ran to hug her. They collided with some force, and Sasha staggered backwards a bit but returned the embrace.

“Martin,” she said, a little too loudly given her proximity to his ear but audibly concerned. He just held her tighter, only gradually realizing how sure he had been that he would never hear her voice again. She pulled back enough to give him a critical once-over. “Look, I- I’m happy to see you again too, but _what_ is going on with you? I thought you were sick, and then I get a call saying you’re _here_ , looking like death and with _Jon_?” At this, she threw a glance past Martin to where Jon presumably still sat on the couch. “Are you guys okay?”

Jon laughed bitterly, and Martin let go of Sasha and turned in time to see him rise from the couch on unsteady legs. “Sasha, I believe I can say with some confidence that we are _not_.”

“I wasn’t sick,” Martin croaked, finding his throat suddenly tight. He opened his mouth to explain, but no words came out.

A look of alarm crossed over Sasha’s face. “What do you mean, you weren’t sick? Why did you say you were?”

Something very _off_ pinged in Martin’s mind at that, but before he had a chance to consider it Jon said, “It was Jane Prentiss. She found us as we… conducted some follow-up on the case of Carlos Vittery.”

“What, that spider statement?” Sasha’s eyebrows drew even closer together, if that was possible. “Wait. _Jane Prentiss?_ She’s from a statement too. Wasn’t she the one who was…” Her eyes went wide behind her glasses, dawning horror apparent.

“Infested,” Jon supplied, his voice tight. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Sasha said. “Oh _God._ What did she _do?_ ”

“She, uh. Followed me home,” Martin said. “Jon and I were- _Tim?_ ”

Tim now stood in the doorway behind Sasha, aghast. “ _Who_ followed you home?”

“I- Prentiss- Tim, what are you _doing_ here?” Martin looked from Sasha to Jon to Tim, entirely overwhelmed.

“I called him,” Sasha said, throwing a glance in Tim’s direction. “Figured he’d want to see if you were okay. We’ve been worried, you know.”

“I’m getting more worried,” Tim said, a hard edge to his voice. His gaze shifted suspiciously around the room, and Martin could tell the moment it alighted on Jon, who stood worn and bedraggled a short distance apart from where the three of them were clustered. His expression grew a bit wild at the sight. “Does anyone want to tell me _why_ you both look like you ran through a tornado to get here?”

Martin nodded, gathering his thoughts, but before he could begin, Jon spoke up from behind him. “If I may,” he said, then faltered a bit as three gazes simultaneously turned to him. “Martin and I will need to make our statements.” Tim and Sasha both opened their mouths, clearly ready to protest, but Jon cut them off. “For the sake of efficiency, I suggest the two of you sit in as we record. It’s… unconventional, but so long as neither of you interrupts there shouldn’t be any issues. And we can avoid any unnecessary retellings.”

Martin sighed in relief. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea.” There was already something unpleasant coiling in his gut at the thought of reliving the experience once; he couldn’t imagine what telling the story over and over again would do to him.

Sasha still looked skeptical. “Right now? Are you… ready for that? You still look a bit…” She made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass all of Martin. That was encouraging.

“Now would be preferable, yes,” Jon said. He turned to Martin. “Do you have any objections?” His tone was as stern and professional as it had ever been, but his eyes held what Martin would have optimistically described as a hint of hesitation. Perhaps Sasha had struck a nerve.

“No, that’s alright.” Martin forced down the last sliver of shakiness. “Best to get it over with, I guess.”

Jon nodded and wordlessly began walking in the direction of his office. Martin followed. Tim and Sasha trailed behind them, and as they passed through the door, Tim laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder and mumbled conspiratorially, “I know now’s not the time, but I’ve _got_ to know why Jon’s in your jumper.”

Martin flushed bright red and stammered some incoherent nonsense before getting out, “ _Later!_ ”

Tim’s only response was a Cheshire grin and a friendly squeeze on the shoulder before grabbing a folding chair and making himself comfortable on the far side of the room beside Sasha. As soon as he was seated, he seemed to remember the situation and his smile turned grim, effectively souring what little normalcy Martin had gained from the interaction.

Jon sat at his desk, shuffling around some papers seemingly out of habit and finally stilling when his hand landed on the tape recorder. A small measure of tension seemed to drain out of him as he ran his hand over it and fit his fingers to the buttons, as though the familiarity of the motions was comforting. Martin had to admit he did look at home in this setting, despite his disheveled and evidently still anxious state. Martin himself felt less at home; it was disconcerting to sit opposite Jon at the desk instead of hovering around the periphery clutching a teacup or sheaf of files.

“Right,” Jon said, leveling a serious look at each occupant of the room in turn. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind any of you how unorthodox this is. Neither of _you_ are to comment or react audibly in any way until the statement is finished, and, Martin-” Jon frowned. “Let’s try and keep it professional, shall we?”

“Uh. Sure?”

Tim coughed pointedly in a way Martin was sure was directed at the mention of _keeping it professional._ It was all Martin could do to resist turning and scowling at him, but he was pretty sure that would violate the guidelines for professionalism Jon had just set.

Jon had no such qualms, and glowered in Tim’s direction. “That,” he said a touch acidly, “is exactly the type of audio contribution I would like to keep _off_ the tapes.”

Well. It seemed all the tension was having quite an effect on Jon’s mood. Martin supposed it was understandable, but bristled a bit nonetheless on Tim’s behalf.

“Ready?” Jon asked.

Martin nodded, and Jon turned on the tape recorder with a sharp _click_.

“Statement of…” Jon paused. “ _Joint_ statement of Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims, regarding a close encounter with the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject- _subjects_ \- 12th March, 2016.”

He looked up briefly and met Martin’s eyes, and Martin swallowed. “Statement begins.”

* * *

Martin ended up being the one to tell most of the story; Jon was apparently unused to contributing to the statements he took and only spoke to interject details he felt Martin had described inadequately or to describe those few moments Martin had not been present for.

Tim and Sasha were able to keep remarkably quiet, save for the occasional gasp or unintelligible whisper from the corner, and by the time Jon grimly intoned, “Statement ends,” there was only stunned silence in the room.

After a moment, Tim let out a shuddering breath and breathed, “ _Fuck.”_

Martin almost laughed. That about described it. Judging by Jon’s expression, his thoughts were much the same, though he didn’t seem inclined to laugh.

Sasha had gone sickly pale. “Martin,” she said, voice quavering. “You lost your phone?”

His brow furrowed in confusion. That was an odd detail to take away from everything he had just described. “Yeah? Right that first night, why-”

“I’ve been getting messages from you. We both have. Telling us you- you were sick. That you had a _parasite_.”

Martin’s stomach turned. “Oh,” he whispered numbly. He had to swallow thickly before saying, “What- what about Jon? Did you hear anything from him?”

“Nothing,” Tim said darkly. “Except a message from you that said _the Archivist was infected._ God, Martin, I-” He broke off and pressed an obviously shaking hand to his mouth.

Sasha put her hand on Tim’s shoulder, though her grip was far too tight to be comforting. “We would have come,” she said with an air of desperation. Her gaze flickered between Martin and Jon. “We would have come.”

“I know,” Martin said, trying not to let the lie creep into his voice the way it wanted to. It tasted sour, and Jon’s eyes weighed heavily on him.

He didn’t realize how quiet Jon had been until he finally spoke. “Prentiss is highly dangerous. It’s…” He took a deep breath. “If you had come, there is every likelihood she would have attacked you as well.”

“That doesn’t _matter,_ ” Tim burst out. “I should have known, I should have…”

“Tim,” Martin said gently. “Jon’s right. We’re alright, we’re both fine. Nothing happened.”

“Nothing? That’s _nothing?_ You ate peaches for a week! You had a _worm in your hand!_ ”

“Well.” Martin ran a thumb over the small circular scab. “Yeah. That… wasn’t good. But we’re okay, really. You… you couldn’t have known.” This was said with some difficulty, but the hollowed-out sensation it left him with was well worth it if it removed the dreadful expression Tim was making. 

Tim made a small distressed noise, but was otherwise quiet. Anguish was still plain on his face. Sasha rubbed his back and said, “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know,” Martin admitted. “Find a place to stay, I guess? I- I can’t really go back to my flat, at least for a while…” His hands twisted anxiously in his lap at the thought.

Jon cleared his throat. “You, ah, you needn’t worry in that regard. There is a cot in document storage where I sometimes sleep when working late; I suggest you stay there for the time being. I’m told the ventilation systems in the Institute are quite well sealed.”

“Oh!” Martin was taken aback. He had already been bracing himself to swallow his pride and ask to stay with Tim or Sasha. “That’s- that’s great, actually, thank you.” Jon sleeping at work often enough to warrant a cot was a problem for another time, as was the fact that Martin wasn’t sure how he could be expected to survive sleeping in what was essentially Jon’s bed. He wasn’t particularly keen on discussing that issue, though.

“What about you, Jon?” Sasha asked.

Jon looked bewildered. “What about me?”

“Where are you staying? Don’t tell me you’re going home alone. She could come back for you.”

“I. Well. That is-” Jon cleared his throat, very obviously considering this possibility for the first time. After a moment, he shook his head. “I see no reason why I should be unable to return to my flat.”

Martin couldn’t help interjecting, “ _Don’t_ you? Really, Jon?”

Jon fixed him with the detached, clinical stare that always overcame him when he thought it inappropriate to get personally involved in a statement, or some such nonsense. “We have no evidence to suggest Prentiss might return, or indeed that she has any vested interest in me at all,” he said sternly. “There is certainly no reason she might know where I live. This is not a cause for concern.”

Martin scoffed. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? This is ridiculous.”

Someone less used to Jon’s intensity might have buckled under the unimpressed, withering look Martin received for that. As it was, he remained upright, but his conviction did wane a little.

He sighed. “Am I going to be able to change your mind?”

“I sincerely doubt it.” Jon rubbed at his temple as if after all they had been through, the thing that finally induced a headache was his friends’ investment in his safety. “Look,” he said finally. “Will you let me make my own arrangements in peace if I agree to send out a text message confirming my safety when I arrive?”

“Yeah, because texts have been so reliable recently,” Tim said, dryly and sharply enough that Jon visibly faltered.

“Yes, alright, that’s a valid point. I’ll call one of you, then; that ought to be trustworthy enough.”

It occurred to Martin then that he would not be the one to receive that call, even if Jon thought to contact him. He still had no phone, and so wouldn’t even have a way for Tim or Sasha to let him know Jon was safe. His stomach felt twisted into knots at the thought. He had spent the last two weeks with his own wellbeing so closely tied to Jon’s that the idea of not knowing whether Jon was alright at any given time was almost nauseating. He would have no idea whether Jon was alive or dead, much less if he was in trouble or distressed or if something terrible was happening to him-

“Right.” Jon’s voice, authoritative and firm, snapped Martin out of his spiral. “Now that that’s settled, if you all don’t mind, I’d like to get some work done. I’ve fallen quite far behind schedule in my absence.”

It was a clear dismissal, but nobody moved. Martin assumed that Tim and Sasha, like him, were looking on incredulously as Jon pulled out a pen and began leafing through the contents of a manila folder. He looked up after a terse second, irritation clear on his face as he realized he wasn’t being left alone. “Well?”

“You can’t be serious,” Sasha said eventually.

Jon blinked. “I am.”

Here was the thing about harboring romantic interest in Jonathan Sims. The man gave off such a determinedly upright, professional aura and acted so defiantly erudite that, in combination with the potent powers of infatuation, it could be quite easy sometimes to forget Jon was also a bit of an idiot and far too stubborn for his own good. In moments like these, though, Martin was forcibly reminded that this was also the man who had no idea how he liked his own tea and knew far too much about emulsifiers and, apparently, was too damn headstrong to even give himself a moment to recover after a properly traumatic ordeal.

Martin took a steadying breath. Arguing with Jon was never fun, but this was something he couldn’t just let stand. “Jon, you’re not going to work right now.”

Jon’s face creased with familiar annoyance. “ _Martin_ -”

“I’m serious,” Martin said before Jon could get started. “You do remember that less than an hour ago we were running from killer worms, right?”

Jon crossed his arms. “And now we’re not.” There was a thinly veiled warning in his tone that Martin entirely ignored. He’d faced scarier things in recent days, thank you.

“No,” he said. “But, and I know you won’t like this, but we are _in recovery._ You know, the thing people do after they’ve been through something terrible? Like being trapped for over a week by a creature straight out of a horror movie?”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Jon said venomously. Martin could distinctly make out the undercurrent of defensiveness there, and the part of him not occupied with disbelief and worry was deeply saddened.

“Good,” Martin said, folding his arms in kind. “Great! I’m glad to hear it. You can come be fine in the break room, where we have food that isn’t peaches and a couch that you can sit on without worrying about worms crawling through it.” He could play the stubbornness game, if that was what Jon wanted. Taking care of people who didn’t want to be taken care of was kind of his specialty.

There was a flicker of interest in Jon’s eyes at the mention of food, and a spark of pride glowed in Martin’s chest. That had been his trump card, and it seemed he had played it well. All the in-depth study of Jon’s card-playing technique had paid off, apparently. Jon didn’t move to get up, though, so Martin sighed and sat back in his chair, making himself comfortable and broadcasting as clearly as he could that he wasn’t going anywhere either.

Jon pressed his lips together in a thin line and exhaled heavily through his nose. Martin raised an eyebrow.

“One hour.” The words sounded like they were being drawn out of Jon by force, but that was still a victory as far as Martin was concerned.

He smiled. “Great! Come on, then.” He stood, waited to make sure Jon stood as well, then left the room, Tim and Sasha following behind. Jon seemed to drift aimlessly once in the break room, his feet carrying him along the trajectory that had brought him through the door but not angling him anywhere in particular. Martin was glad to see Tim touch a tentative hand to Jon’s shoulder and begin to speak softly as he turned to rummage through the fridge.

As it turned out, there wasn’t actually anything in the fridge that would be considered _good_ by normal standards. There was, however, a plastic container emphatically labeled _Tim’s! Do Not Eat!_ which seemed to contain leftover curry or something similar, and that was more than good enough for Martin. He popped it in the microwave and, in the humming quiet that followed, slotted himself in between Tim and Sasha on the couch. They immediately made room for him but pressed in close again once he was seated, and as the warmth from their legs seeped into his, he could feel a small, stinging wound in his heart close over.

Jon had opted for a metal folding chair rather than the sofa – honestly, Martin was starting to think Jon had some kind of complex about professionalism that extended all the way to accepting comfortable seating – and from his slightly more elevated perch, he watched the three of them as though trying to puzzle something out. Martin fidgeted under his gaze. They had fallen into old patterns again just like that, he realized, with Jon sitting a safe distance apart from the three of them and looking on as impassively as he ever had. A small part of Martin had hoped they might come out of this as something closer to friends, but that part may have been overly optimistic. Did Jon even want to be any closer to the three of them? There were nearer chairs he could have sat in. He could even have shared the sofa with them, had he been willing to brave a bit of a squeeze. But he clearly hadn’t wanted that, so it was up to Martin to make a move if he wanted to integrate Jon a bit more.

The microwave gave a shrill, grating beep and Martin leapt up to retrieve the food. A divine smell wafted out as soon as he opened the door, spicy and slightly burnt and not even a little bit reminiscent of peaches. He dug two forks out of a drawer and, after a moment of deliberation, sat in the chair that would bridge the gap between Jon’s seat and the sofa. For practicality reasons, if anyone asked. Jon accepted the proffered fork and breathed in deeply, clearly savoring the smell as much as Martin had.

“That’s cold, Martin,” Tim said from where he lay with one arm slung haphazardly over the back of the couch. He motioned to the writing on the side of the container. “You steal a man’s food, and then you eat it right in front of him and don’t even offer a bite. _Cold._ ”

“Oh.” Martin blinked, his cheeks heating. “Sorry Tim, I didn’t think-”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I’m kidding. Just eat it.”

Relieved, Martin stabbed a piece of chicken. He’d just put it in his mouth and begun to chew, halfway to a state of ecstasy, when Tim added nonchalantly, “It’s not that good, anyway.” Martin had to cover his mouth with a hand as a wave of giggles overtook him at that. It was _very_ good. Possibly the best curry he had ever tasted, two days old or more and served in a Tupperware dish. He was eating five-star cuisine, and his friends were smiling fondly and teasing him over lunch, and he was _alive_. If a single tear streaked down his cheek as he laughed, nobody commented.

Jon was picking at the curry too, and Martin was careful not to go in for a bite at the same time as Jon in case the reminder that they were eating almost companionably from one bowl spooked him. For a moment, Martin was reminded of an afternoon several months ago, when Jon had just informed them all that they were being reassigned to the archives and Tim had immediately insisted they all go have lunch together to celebrate. Tim and Sasha had already kind of known each other, and he had known Sasha’s name and not much else and was blushing rather uncontrollably into his bowl of soup, and they had all sat crammed around a slightly-too-small booth in an unmistakable aura of blossoming friendship. Now that Martin thought of it, that might have been not just the first but the only time they’d all eaten together until now. It was just as nice as he remembered.

Maybe Jon thought so, too. When his promised hour was up, it almost seemed like he hesitated before secluding himself in his office.

* * *

Tim and Sasha did not leave the Institute until several hours later, and Martin protested that they were wasting their weekends but was secretly very grateful. It was a large, old building prone to unexplainable drafts and housing any number of sinister artifacts, and Martin was quite sure that he could convince himself of all sorts of horrors if left to his own devices for too long.

Thankfully, instead he had had Tim and Sasha for company – Jon had yet to emerge from his office – and was kept busy with the steady stream of questions they had for him.

(“So, why _is_ Jon wearing your shirt?”

“That’s _Martin’s_ shirt? I thought it looked familiar…”

“Yeah, Sash, keep up. Come on, Martin, we need answers.”

“I- shh, not so _loud!_ Honestly, there’s nothing to tell. It was almost two weeks, Tim, he couldn’t wear the same clothes the whole time!”

“Uh- _huh._ He could have washed them though, right.”

“Wh- He- No! I mean, I guess he _could_ have, but-”

“M _hm._ ”

“Oh, come on, Tim, leave him alone. It was very nice of you to lend him your clothes, Martin.”

“Heh. Thanks, Sasha.”

“And the whole oversized jumper look _does_ work for him, so that’s a bonus.”

“ _Sasha!”_ )

_Anyway._ Martin was alone in the Institute now, insofar as he could be alone with Jon behind a locked door a few rooms away. It was probably dark outside by now, and wasn’t that a strange reversal? The perfectly functional clock hanging above the door told him it was exactly quarter past eight, but if he wanted to know whether the sky had darkened yet he would have to go outside.

At some point between saying goodbye to Tim and Sasha and cleaning up the few mugs that had accumulated on the coffee table over the last few hours, he had begun idly cataloguing the room’s openings. The sink was a liability, of course, as were the door and the ill-maintained patch on the wall behind the coffee machine where a crack had started to form. Martin was halfway to collecting a tea towel to stop up the gap when he caught himself and forced himself to remember where he was. He sighed a bit shakily. That impulse probably wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Best to focus his nervous energy on something useful. He could make himself comfortable in document storage, he decided, and wound his way through the corridors until he reached the dark, dry room where Jon _apparently slept some nights?_ Jesus. Martin had never spent much time in document storage; he was rarely the one to handle the final filing of statements, and the few excursions he had taken there had left him with the impression of a cramped, poorly organized space absolutely overflowing with filing cabinets. It was true he’d never deliberately looked for one, but he had certainly never seen a _cot_ in there.

Even after Martin flicked on the light (and was briefly amazed at the concept of functional light switches), there was no indication that someone slept there with any regularity. The room was a bit of a maze with all the rows of free-standing filing cabinets, but certainly not enough so to conceal an entire living space. A few minutes of careful poking around didn’t reveal anything in the way of bedding, either. Sighing, Martin resolved to ask Jon.

He hesitated a bit outside the office door. Normally, he had a cup of tea as a sort of peace offering when he did this. Standing outside empty-handed felt _wrong_ , but after a deep breath, Martin pulled himself together enough to knock.

Immediately, there was a sharp, muffled exclamation from inside, and Martin nervously cracked the door. “Jon?”

Jon was out of his desk and his chair lay tipped over on the floor. There was a wild look on his face, and as he met Martin’s eyes it shifted into wariness. “ _Christ,_ Martin,” Jon said, and all at once Martin realized what he had done. Jon had put the desk between himself and the door, had grabbed the nearest object (a tape recorder, hopefully not running) and assumed a defensive stance because he had thought _Martin was Prentiss._

A flood of cold swept through him, from his heart all the way into his fingertips. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, Jon, I didn’t think-”

“Yes,” Jon said unsteadily, stooping to pick up his chair. “That much is clear.”

Martin cringed. “ _Sorry._ I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well,” Jon scowled, then sighed. Less sternly, he said, “It’s… alright. What do you need, Martin?”

“Right. I was wondering, uh-” He broke off, distracted. “Did you change?”

“What?” Jon looked down at himself, at the regular work clothes that had replaced Martin’s jumper. “Yes, I did. Is… that why you’re here?”

“Uh. No. You, er, mentioned a cot in document storage?”

“I did. Am I to assume you need help finding it?”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “I- if you don’t mind, yeah. I had a look around, but I couldn’t see it.”

“I should hope not,” Jon said, brushing past Martin as he left the room. Martin pulled the door shut behind him and followed as Jon continued, “I’ve taken some precautions to ensure document storage doesn’t become _public domain_ , as it were, for anyone who sees fit to have a lie down during work hours. It wouldn’t do to have the cot just lying around in the open.”

“Ah,” Martin said. “So you’ve… hidden it?”

They reached document storage, and Jon made a beeline for a filing cabinet in the far corner of the room. “It sounds rather juvenile when you say it like that,” he said, and pulled out a folded metal frame and mattress from behind the cabinet. “But yes.”

“Huh. Well, that explains why I couldn’t find it.” Martin took the frame from Jon and began to unfold it, wincing at the grating sound of metal. As he bent the legs into position, Jon started rummaging through adjacent filing cabinets. By the time he had set the cot upright, Jon had produced a thin blanket and pillow from one of the drawers. Martin allowed himself a moment to be amused at hyper-organized Jon stashing blankets in the official filing system.

Jon set the blanket on the cot, gave the setup a brief once-over, and nodded. He turned to leave, but he hadn’t made it more than a few steps before Martin blurted out, “You’re not really going home tonight, are you?” The idea had been plaguing him all day; his stomach churned at the very thought of Jon, alone, hurrying through darkened streets as all sorts of dangers lurked in the shadows.

Jon paused and seemed to work something over in his mind before he spoke. “I… don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t.”

That wasn’t a no. Martin chose his next words carefully. “There’s… there’s no shame in not wanting to, you know. I know _I_ certainly wouldn’t feel safe doing that right now.” When Jon didn’t answer, his head bowed slightly where he was backlit against the open door, Martin asked tentatively, “Do you actually want to go?”

There was a frustrated sigh, and Jon said bitterly, “Of course I don’t _want_ to go.”

“Oh!” That was further than Martin had expected to get, to be honest. “So… you’re staying here, then?”

“ _No._ ” Jon’s voice was steely, and he appeared to have an iron grip on the doorframe. “As I said, there is no reason for me to avoid my flat. I am going to complete my work for the evening, and then I am going home.” He spat each word like it was a bad taste he was trying to cleanse his mouth of.

“Alright,” Martin said. He saw no point pressing the issue. Jon could be almost inhumanly stubborn, and having the same argument twice in one day would just be exhausting for them both. “Well, if you want- if you change your mind, the cot’s all yours. We can always, uh, sleep in shifts again.” He smiled hesitantly. “Like old times, you know?”

Jon gave an exhale that might have been half a laugh. “I think I’d rather prefer to keep the old times behind us.”

Martin sighed. “Yeah. Me too.” He moved a bit closer to Jon, wanting to properly see his face in the dim light. “I’m, uh.” His hands twisted unconsciously at the hem of his jumper. “I’m really glad we made it, Jon.”

The expression on Jon’s face was strange. Soft, but apprehensive, and, at the same time, almost mournful. He studied Martin for a moment before saying, “I am too.”

Thoughtlessly, Martin took another step forward so he and Jon were mere inches apart. Something instantly shifted in Jon’s face, and he took a shuffling step backwards. That stung a bit, but Martin was feeling unusually bold and didn’t back away. Instead, he extended his arms out slowly and leaned just slightly in toward Jon, making sure to clearly broadcast all his movements and give ample opportunity for Jon to move away or shove him off. None of that happened, though, and Martin slowly, carefully wrapped his arms around Jon.

It was awkward. It was terribly, perfectly awkward and also possibly the best decision Martin had ever made. Jon stood ramrod straight and motionless, and he felt bonier than Martin would have expected, but he was so _warm_. After a stiff, slightly uncomfortable moment, Jon relaxed incrementally, letting out a puff of air into Martin’s jumper and resting his forehead against Martin’s shoulder cautiously enough that it seemed he was waiting for Martin to disappear. His breath bloomed a warm spot on Martin's jumper that almost burned for the odd sense of intimacy it brought. Martin hoped fervently that Jon couldn’t feel the heavy thudding of his heart as he allowed himself to smooth his hands over the planes of Jon’s back. He was so thin; Martin could feel each of his vertebrae and his shoulder blades jutted out sharply against his palms. Jon did not move to wrap his arms around Martin in kind, but that was alright. It might be for the best, even. Prentiss hadn’t killed them, but the careful weight of Jon’s head on his shoulder alone was threatening to do the job anyway. A proper, honest-to-goodness hug might really have been the end.

Eventually, Jon began to shift around and Martin let go, immediately taking a few steps back in case he had just violated every one of Jon’s rules about personal space. Overcompensation had always been one of his strengths, after all. “Sorry,” he said uselessly, body still thrumming with the warmth of contact. His fingers twitched involuntarily, desperate to twine themselves back into the fabric of Jon’s shirt. “Just, uh, happy to be alive, and all that.”

Jon made a slightly strangled sound that was completely unrecognizable as a word and cleared his throat forcefully. It was too dim to tell, but Martin was willing to bet he was blushing. His own cheeks were certainly hot. “Yes. Well.” Jon shifted his weight restlessly. “Sleep. Uh. Sleep well, Martin.” With no further ado, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Martin still aching with warmth and rather bereft in the doorway.

“Make sure to call Sasha!” he called helplessly when his brain rebooted and Jon was probably already well out of earshot.

Then, like the pathetic wretch he was, he sat on the cot with a creak and pressed the pillow to his face. It smelled dusty and not at all like Jon.

God, he was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we're not getting new episodes until September, this fic is the only thing anchoring me to any semblance of the passage of time. Literally the only time I know what day of the week it is is on Thursdays. Therefore, I invite you to think of comments and kudos and such as donations to a fund titled Keep This Author Sane During The Long And Nebulous Summer Months. I sincerely appreciate any and all contributions. Thank you all for reading, I hope you're enjoying this story as much as I am!! See you next Thursday! :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: very brief mentions of worms.


	8. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin go on the world's most cautious excursion to retrieve some clothes and necessities, only freaking out a little bit along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just barely gotten the boys out of Martin's flat and I'm already sending them back in. Sorry, guys. Fun fact, though: sometimes when people want two animals to bond, they put them in a stressful situation together and when they come out of it they trust each other. Make of that what you will.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! Enjoy!

“Ah, Jon, there you are. Wait just a moment. I wanted to talk to you.”

Jon narrowly avoided tripping over his own feet and sending the stack of papers he clutched flying. He swore under his breath. He had been hoping to avoid this. Whatever an unplanned two-week absence did to one’s employee record, it couldn’t be pretty, and he had spent the weekend mentally composing and rejecting emails full of excuses and increasingly far-fetched explanations.

Swallowing down a sigh, he turned and wiped his face carefully, _mostly_ blank of its preset scowl. “Hello, Elias.”

Elias just smiled. His smiles were always strange, slick things that seemed to suggest he knew something everyone else didn’t and was quite smug about it. They never failed to make Jon squirm, and now was no exception. Bland as he was, there was something unsettling about Elias; Jon suspected it had something to do with his strict uniform of pinstripe suits or with the odd intensity his gaze permanently held.

That intensity was now focused on Jon, who frowned under its scrutiny and bit out, “Can I help you.”

“Oh, I believe you can!” Elias said jovially. “That is, you already have. You’ve put my mind at ease, you see.”

Jon raised a questioning eyebrow but did not otherwise respond.

Elias tapped his foot with a sharp little _click-click_ sound. “I understand you’ve spent some unscheduled time away from work of late. I assume there must have been extenuating circumstances of some type. Nothing too… troubling, I hope?” His expression was expectant, but strangely so; it looked more like Elias was waiting for the answer to a question he already knew than awaiting a flimsy excuse. Abruptly, a vivid picture came to Jon’s mind of a cat toying with its prey, already cornered and wounded.

He forced his mind clear of the image. “Yes, I apologize for my absence. There was an… _incident-_ ” even that word made his skin crawl, but he didn’t let himself itch; his arms were already raw and reddened enough- “which unfortunately prevented my presence at the Institute. I would have been here if at all possible.”

The look on Elias’s face might have been something akin to amusement, which seemed a bit inappropriate considering the subject matter. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he said. “I’m fully aware of your _admirable_ work ethic, you know. In fact, I believe I would not be remiss in suggesting you work less once in a while. I haven’t known any other employee to go so far as to keep a cot in the office. Two weeks seems extreme, however, I must say. It must have been _quite_ an incident.”

Jon cringed. Evidently he hadn’t hidden the cot as well as he’d hoped. “It was. I had an… an _encounter_. With the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss.” Elias just waited impassively. The name clearly meant nothing to him. Jon continued, slightly unsteadily, “Prentiss has come up in several statements. I believe her to be i-infested with an unnatural parasite of some kind. Martin… uh, Martin Blackwood and I encountered her two weeks ago and were trapped in his flat. Up until Saturday. We’ve already made a statement.”

“Gracious,” Elias said mildly. “I trust you’re both alright?” There wasn’t even a note of surprise in his voice. Was being held under siege by hostile paranormal beings more common an experience in this line of work than Jon had been led to believe?

Feeling more and more like he’d stumbled into some kind of dissociative state, Jon replied, “Yes, we’re fine, thank you.” _Except for the probable psychological trauma and the worm that tried to eat Martin’s hand,_ he didn’t say. _And the fact that Martin lives in document storage now, and I haven’t gone home since we got back to the Institute._

“And how is Martin faring with his new lodgings?”

Jon blinked. “He, uh. He’s doing alright, I think? I, I didn’t realize you knew he was…”

Elias gave that too-polite dinner-party smile again. “Please, Jon. A simple assumption. Tell me, where is he staying for the time being?”

“In the Institute. Uh, document storage.”

Elias nodded approvingly. “A wise choice. Infrequently visited and well-insulated against any potential threats. Although I’m sure you’re aware that to sleep in that room is a bit of a safety hazard.”

Jon had told Martin to sleep in document storage for the express reason that it _wasn’t_ a hazard. He furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

“Well. Legally, that is. All those filing cabinets, you know. They can tip over quite easily, and I imagine being struck by one would be very painful. I advise that you inform Martin of the risk, so that he doesn’t have to miss any _more_ work due to a frankly avoidable injury. Just imagine the paperwork.”

Baffled, Jon said, “Yes, alright, I’ll pass that along.” Idly, he wondered what kind of paperwork covered being attacked by carnivorous worms. There was probably a different level of liability given that the filing cabinets were Institute property whereas the worms were decidedly _not_ , but it seemed unbalanced nonetheless.

“Excellent!” Elias gave Jon a businesslike clap on the shoulder. “I’ll let you get on with it, then. Surely you have a great deal of work to catch up on.” He made to walk away, but Jon stopped him. “Elias, just one more thing?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to recommend that you increase security around the Institute, if possible. I’m, ah.” His mouth was suddenly quite dry, and he swallowed. “I’m concerned Prentiss may still be an active threat, possibly with a direct interest in myself and Martin. It would serve us well to guard against any potential… intrusion attempts.”

Face a perfect mask of sympathy, Elias nodded. “Certainly. Ensuring that my employees feel safe here is, naturally, a top priority. I’ll see to it immediately.”

“Thank you.”

As Elias walked off, Jon clutched his stack of statement files to his chest and tried to remember the last time he had felt safe in the Institute.

* * *

There seemed to be an inverse proportion between how much work needed to be done and how easy it was to tackle it.

The research Jon needed to catch up on fit easily in two manila folders, and he’d already spent two nights in his office under the guise of making up for lost time, but he just couldn’t seem to make a dent in it. He was easily distractible these days, flinching at small noises and positively jumping whenever someone knocked at his door. Martin, thankfully, had learned his lesson after that first mortifying encounter, but the others hadn’t connected their entrances to his cornered-animal demeanor yet. He didn’t intend to tell them. It wouldn’t do to encourage such a ridiculous fear response, especially in the workplace.

Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things anyway, really. He was encouraging a lot of workplace-inappropriate behavior these days. Officially, he couldn’t have condoned Martin standing bleary-eyed in the break room brewing tea at odd hours of the night. It was honestly absurd that he was making such frequent use of the locked drawer of his desk that contained his emergency change of clothes. He wasn’t even going to address the fact that Martin’s borrowed jumper had joined his stash of clothes and, for the last two nights, served as a makeshift pillow in lieu of his usual cot (it was much softer than his own shirts and he hadn’t worked out how to return it in a way that wasn’t debilitatingly uncomfortable, and the longer he waited the more uncomfortable the thought of returning it became). For heaven’s sake, Martin had _embraced_ him that first night. Prolonged physical contact of that kind wasn’t an explicit violation of the guidelines detailed in the Institute’s employee handbook (he had checked, and found only a strange clause detailing procedures to deal with arson in the office, which seemed like an odd thing to have a protocol for), but it had certainly felt like a misdemeanor of some kind. Jon had been too shocked to stop him, besides which he had been completely caught off guard by how grounding it was just to be held.

All that was… fine. Unavoidable. But he drew the line at telling his assistants not to _knock at his door_ , because frankly that was an absurd thing to be afraid of. He wasn’t afraid of it. He wouldn’t be.

Which was why he didn’t flinch in the slightest when he heard the door crack and Martin softly call, “Jon? Can I come in?”

Sighing, Jon set aside the paperwork he’d been staring at for the last hour. “Yes, come in.”

Martin approached the desk very cautiously, shuffling his feet in a way that was excessive even for him. Jon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Nervous was Martin’s default setting, but it seemed more prominent on his face than most days. “Is something wrong?”

“Hm? Oh, no, nothing.” Martin’s hands twisted in the hem of his jumper. “I just wanted to let you know that I think I’m going to go back to my flat today, just to collect some things.”

Something twisted unpleasantly in Jon’s gut. “Alone?”

“Oh. Uh.” Martin’s face contorted with visible discomfort, and his hands twisted even more intently at his shirt. “I was going to ask-”

“I’ll come with you.” Jon didn’t think. The words spilled out of him before he could consider them, and as his mind caught up with his mouth he realized it was true. He was going with Martin. He didn’t entirely like it, but there it was: an immovable fact.

Martin just stood there, apparently shocked into silence. A look of incredulousness remained frozen on his face long enough for Jon to second-guess himself and add defensively, “You shouldn’t go alone, at any rate. It’s not safe.”

This was enough to shake Martin from his stupor, and he fixed Jon with a hesitant look. “Are you sure? I- I don’t want to, to put you out, or…”

He trailed off at the withering look Jon fixed him with. “I don’t make offers I’m not prepared to follow through on, Martin.”

“Right. Right, uh. ‘Course not.” Martin ran a nervous hand through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. An unruly curl fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away with an absentminded motion. “I was thinking of going at lunch? If that’s alright with you?”

“That’s perfectly fine.”

It seemed a clear enough dismissal to Jon, but Martin evidently didn’t see it as such. He just stood there as if waiting for something more, shifting his weight back and forth and considering Jon with a hint of a smile.

Jon prodded, “Is there anything else you needed?”

“Oh. No, no, that’s it. I’ll just…” Already moving, Martin motioned toward the door.

Jon nodded. “Close the door on your way out, please.”

Martin did so, and the soft _click_ had barely finished echoing when the door opened again. Jon turned, fully ready to be irritated, but it was only Martin poking his head back in. “Just realized I forgot to say thanks,” he said, and then he was gone again.

Somehow, Jon couldn’t find it in himself to be irritated at that.

Lunchtime caught Jon entirely unawares, midway through a skimming a particularly dull statement regarding one Maria Wilder’s deceased grandmother, who had allegedly returned from the dead to make a series of ominous announcements. He likely wouldn’t have noticed the time at all had it not been for Martin shyly appearing in the doorway to tell him that his lunch break had started now, and if it was alright with Jon perhaps they could get going soon, that was, _if_ Jon was still available, because Martin would completely understand if he wasn’t.

And so it was that Jon found himself first on the tube and then walking down an almost-familiar street at noon on a Monday, nervously glancing behind him every few steps in search of danger. Martin was equally paranoid, and between the two of them they nearly collided with a good three or four passersby in their distraction.

After a while, Martin stopped abruptly on a nondescript street corner, stretching out his arm to stop Jon as well. Jon didn’t have to ask to know what Martin was doing as he peered cautiously around the nearest building, tension radiating in waves from his entire frame. Nothing seemed to be amiss, as he eventually relaxed a bit and turned back to Jon with a serious expression. “Last chance to back out.”

Jon squared his shoulders. “Did you tell Tim and Sasha where we were going?”

“Yeah, of course.” Martin gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Twice, actually. And you have your phone, right? And it’s, uh, charged this time?”

Jon dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone as proof, showing off the lit screen. It was admittedly only about half charged, but that would be more than enough in an emergency. “I’m not backing out,” he said. He searched the soft, drawn lines of Martin’s face. “Are you sure you want to do this, Martin?”

Martin looked a bit taken aback. “Wh- I-” He sighed. “I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“You’ve always got a choice,” Jon retorted. “I said the same thing before we left your flat, and you gave me a choice anyway.”

The tips of Martin’s ears had gone a bit red, and his voice was soft when he spoke. “Thanks, Jon.”

“Well.” Jon shoved his hands deep into his pockets and took a suspicious glance around – his first one in a while, he noted with some frustration. It wouldn’t do to let his guard down. “What do you think? Are you ready?”

Martin held Jon’s gaze and nodded, a steely look of determination hardening his face and turning the corners of his mouth down into a resolute frown. “Let’s do it.”

Together, they crept around the corner toward the flat, walking close enough to each other that every other step bumped their arms together in an unconscious little confirmation that they were both still there. By silent agreement, Jon fixed his gaze behind them while Martin looked ahead, though Jon couldn’t stop his eyes from nervously darting forward a few times.

For all the time he had spent inside it, Jon could absolutely not have identified Martin’s flat among the row of absolutely identical flats, and he found himself quite grateful Martin was leading. Less so when there was a squelch and Martin froze abruptly, and Jon bumped into him with his heart in his throat.

Martin swallowed thickly, then whispered almost inaudibly, “Sorry. Stepped on a dead worm.”

Jon looked down, and Martin moved his shoe obligingly to reveal a slick smudge on the concrete. He grimaced. “Sure it was dead?”

“Y-yeah. I would have seen it moving.” Martin’s tone didn’t inspire much confidence, but Jon followed him all the way up to the door of the flat regardless. They stood there for a moment, motionless and with a thrumming nervous energy building between them. “I don’t suppose it’ll be locked,” Martin said, eyeing the handle.

“I certainly didn’t lock it,” Jon admitted. A flash of red caught the corner of his vision and he stepped briefly outside the faux safety of Martin’s reach to retrieve the fire extinguisher, still lying on the ground where Martin had discarded it before they had run. It was a little battered and bore a large dent from its fall, but would still make a decent weapon if the need arose. Jon clutched it tightly and looked back at Martin, who gave an approving nod.

“Well,” Martin said, voice falsely bright. “No time like the present, I suppose.” He reached a hand toward the handle, then suddenly aborted the motion, hanging his head and squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

“No, I must admit I’m not either,” Jon said helpfully. “Would you like to head back to the Institute, then?”

Martin took a deep breath. He shook his head. “No. No, let’s do it. I’ll have to do it eventually. No point in waiting longer, right?”

Jon couldn’t tell if Martin wanted him to encourage him or warn him off, but agreement seemed a safe enough bet. “Right.”

“Right,” Martin repeated. He shut his eyes again, then chanted under his breath, “ _One-two-three-go!_ ” Jon startled slightly as Martin lunged forward on _go_ , twisting the knob and slamming the door open. It hit the interior wall with a _bang,_ and they flinched in unison.

Jon tightened his grip on the extinguisher, but no wave of worms swept out the door. Martin didn’t yell in horror and agony as thousands of worms burrowed into his flesh; no shining silver mass of bodies coated the floor. Instead of lowering his guard in relief, Jon tensed even further, his knuckles going pale with exertion. Martin gave Jon a nervous look, and Jon unclenched his frame enough to shrug in response. Silently, they crept in past the threshold. Jon sympathized for one visceral, aching moment with Naomi Herne. Surely this was what it was like to step into an open grave and see the blank headstone above, ready to be carved with your name.

The flat was deathly quiet. Martin’s footsteps creaked obtrusively against the floorboards, and if Jon had thought himself capable of speech at that moment he might have snapped at him to _watch it._ When he read statements that had that slightly more _real_ feeling to them, Jon always silently swore at the statement-givers for walking into what was obviously a trap, for not just taking the proper precautions and doing things a little differently. It was a feeling not unlike déjà vu to find himself in their position, creeping through a demonstrably unsafe, poorly lit flat mere days after sighting an abomination just outside.

Inside, it looked like a low-budget haunted house or a slightly off-kilter vision of a post-apocalyptic safehouse. There were still odd sheets and towels stuffed into every available opening and crumpled on the floor, discarded cans of peaches sticky with preservation fluid crowding the countertop, and occasional dried stains on the floor where worms had been crushed and not entirely cleaned up. It all seemed strangely foreign to come back to, a perfectly preserved and wholly alien snapshot of the last two weeks of their lives. Hardly daring to breathe, Jon watched as Martin picked his way carefully down the hallway, peeking into doors and closets as he went and flashing thumbs-ups behind him every few steps.

_I forgot to give you the fire extinguisher,_ he thought, and went abruptly cold all over. Watching Martin cautiously approach the bedroom, preparing to open the last unopened door in the flat, suddenly felt far too much like the moment before a cinematic climax. If this were a movie, they would be seconds away from a jump-scare or a horrible reveal, and Jon couldn’t say anything to warn Martin about his untimely plot-advancing demise. _Wait,_ he thought helplessly at Martin, as loudly as he could manage, but it was no use. Martin pushed the door open and looked inside.

In the handful of seconds between the door opening and Martin moving again, Jon’s heart lurched in great pounding motions into his throat and his legs threatened to give way. His grip on the fire extinguisher was so tight that it would not have surprised him to look down and find bruises blooming on his fingers. When Martin turned back, though, it was not to scream for Jon to run.

Instead, he said, “All clear!” He spoke at a normal volume, but after the oppressive silence of before, it was so loud Jon jumped about a foot in the air.

When his heart was no longer threatening to beat out of his chest, Jon managed, “Good. Grab everything you need. Be quick.”

Martin nodded and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Jon to guard the door. They hadn’t discussed this particular arrangement outright, but after two weeks of automatically staying within sight of the door when Martin wasn’t in the room, it was practically second nature to stay where he could see Prentiss easily if she came in.

There was a muffled cacophony of clattering and rustling from the bedroom, and Jon gave himself _one, two, three_ seconds to squeeze his eyes shut and tell himself the air was not about to be shattered by a scream as Martin was killed or worse. They had walked out of here before, and they were going to do it again.

Martin eventually emerged from the bedroom with a bulbous duffel bag in tow and gave Jon a quick smile and wave before ducking into the bathroom, presumably to retrieve his toiletries. Jon’s breath came a bit easier for the split second Martin was within his sight, but as soon as he disappeared again Jon’s chest was tight as ever. It was a physical relief when Martin finally came back into view, saying, “Let me just check the kitchen for anything and we can go. You okay?” This last part was said with some concern; Jon could only imagine what his expression was like.

“Fine,” he said. “I just. I don’t like this place.”

“Well, that’s rude.” Martin spoke into the cabinet he was rummaging through, then looked over his shoulder when Jon made a flustered, half-apologetic sound and smiled at him. Finishing his sweep of the kitchen, he made his way back to Jon. “I’m kidding. I don’t like it either. Let’s go.”

Jon nodded, relieved, and as they walked to the door Martin added, “Unless you want a can of peaches for the road.”

He actually snorted at that. “I’ve had enough peaches to last a lifetime, thank you.”

They had left the door open (foolishly, in retrospect, but it spared them the business of waiting another half hour and listening for worms), and it felt quite strange just to walk out at a normal pace. Martin even locked up on the way out, which was perhaps the most out-of-place thing that had taken place so far. Once every few steps, Jon’s mind yelled a panicked _run!_ at him, and his heart jolted before he remembered that Prentiss couldn’t be behind them in public on a moderately busy street, at least not without causing something of a disturbance.

About halfway back to the tube, Martin began acting strangely. He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, and the only reason Jon didn’t stop them right there in the middle of the street and ask point-blank if Martin wanted him to check his neck for worms was that Martin also kept taking deep breaths and opening his mouth as if to speak, then reconsidering and closing it again.

“Out with it, Martin,” he said after the third or fourth neck rub. Martin looked startled.

“Oh, I, I was just thinking.” He didn’t seem inclined to elaborate any further.

Jon raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Something you wish to tell me?”

“Just… hm.” Martin rubbed at his jaw and, after a moment’s consideration, said, “Trying to figure out how to ask if you want to… stop by your flat as well. While we’re out.”

Jon frowned. “What? Why?”

Martin neatly dodged a man with a briefcase on a full collision course and sighed. “Well… don’t bite my head off for this, okay? I- I know you haven’t been going home. Not that I’m trying to keep track of you, or anything! Just, it’s hard not to notice when I’m _living_ at the Institute and I see you there literally all the time.” The look he gave Jon was wary, as if he were indeed waiting for Jon to leap at him and tear out his jugular. When Jon said nothing, he tacked on, “I thought you might like to grab some spare clothes or something. We, we don’t even have to tell anyone you’re staying at the Institute if you don’t want.”

Jon was almost stunned into silence. All he could think to say was, softly, “They already know. I, I haven’t told them, but Sasha told me to call her when I started heading home and again when I arrived, and… I never did. They must have assumed.”

“Alright,” Martin said, equally gently. Jon didn’t realize he was expecting to hear some kind of judgment in his tone until he was caught off guard by its absence. “Do you want to, then?”

“I…” Jon considered. If he was honest, he hadn’t been planning on spending the night at his flat anytime soon. He’d told himself he was going to every night, then found other things to do until it was late enough to justify sleeping in his office. It felt cowardly to admit defeat like this, but here was Martin explicitly giving him permission to be cowardly. It felt… lighter than he would have expected. He found himself nodding. “I think I would like to, actually.”

“Great.” Martin smiled as they reached the tube station. “If I’m honest, I’ll feel better knowing you’re not going home by yourself too.”

“Oh.”

Martin flushed. “I mean. The Institute is safer, is all.”

Jon had no idea how to reply to that, so he opted for silence as they filed onto the tube and found seats with relative ease. There wasn’t much traffic at midday. As he sat, he remembered his phone for the first time and found a slew of messages waiting for him.

**Sasha James** : _Hey Jon! Just checking in (Delivered 12:49pm)_

**Sasha James:** _Hey, I know you’re probably busy but let me know you and Martin are alright soon please (Delivered 12:55pm)_

**Tim Stoker:** _hey jon sasha asked me to check if youre okay (Delivered 12:57pm)_

**Sasha James:** _Jon? (Delivered 1:00pm)_

_[Missed call: Sasha James. 1:02pm]_

**Tim Stoker:** _boss. not to freak you out but sash and I are getting a little worried here (Delivered 1:04pm)_

**Tim Stoker:** _paging jon sims. please tell us youre okay over (Delivered 1:06pm)_

_[Missed call: Sasha James. 1:08pm]_

“Shit,” Jon muttered, fumbling with the keyboard. As he typed, another text came in.

**Sasha James:** _If we don’t hear from you in the next five minutes Tim and I are heading to Martin’s place (Delivered 1:09pm)_

Frantically, he sent _Sorry. Got caught up._ and instantly grimaced at himself for managing to type something that sounded just as ominous as all Prentiss’s messages about _infestation_ and _parasites._ Sure enough, barely a second later his phone lit up with a call, and Jon put it to his ear with relief. “Hello, Sasha.”

Martin visibly perked up beside Jon at the sound of Sasha’s name, just as Jon cringed at the flood of profanity spilling from the speaker. He had never known Sasha to have such a foul mouth. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he said, making a pained expression in response to Martin’s questioning look. “I know, look, we didn’t mean to frighten you.”

_“Well, you did! You disappeared for an hour with no word, Jon! Complete radio silence! We talked about radio silence!”_

“I know,” he said again, beginning to feel a bit like a broken record. “We’ll be back soon, we just need to-” he glanced over at Martin, who had an odd sort of hopeful look on his face. “Just a little more time. One more thing to do.”

_“Okay,”_ Sasha said, an undercurrent of tension still running through her voice. _“Fine, but stay in touch, okay? I didn’t like that.”_

“Yes, I promise.”

There was a scuffling noise, and Tim’s voice cut in. _“Jon! Not cool!”_

He sighed. “I know, Tim. I am sorry, really.”

“ _How do we know it’s really you over there? What if Jane Prentiss is_ crazy _good at doing impressions?”_

Jon smiled a bit despite himself. “Would you like me to tell you something only Jon would know?” he said dryly.

_“Uh-oh. You just called yourself Jon. That seems like a bad sign.”_

“Look, you can talk to Martin. Maybe that’ll convince you.” He handed the phone over to Martin, who smiled appreciatively.

“Hey, Tim! We’re okay, really.”

There was a pause as Tim said something unintelligible, and Martin turned bright red, looking absolutely scandalized. “ _No!_ Tim!” He started to say something else, then pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with a blend of scorn and amusement. “He hung up on me.”

Jon took the phone back. “What did he say?”

Martin went even redder, if that was possible, flushing all the way down into his collar. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Okay.”

“Just some stupid comment.”

“Hm. Sounds like Tim.”

“Pfft. Yeah, I suppose it does.”

When Jon’s stop was finally announced, he stood with a strange churning in his gut that didn’t feel quite like his fear of encountering Prentiss. It was as if his intestines had twisted themselves into a warm, pulsing knot in his abdomen, squeezing against his heart and his stomach alike. Perhaps he was coming down with something. Hopefully not a parasite.

His flat was only about two minutes’ walk from the tube, so there was hardly even time to build up any paranoia on the way. Once there, Jon unlocked the door quickly and ushered Martin in with an unceremonious flap of his hands when he hesitated on the threshold.

It was deeply strange to have Martin in his living room, standing there clutching his duffel bag and hovering awkwardly on the periphery, but Jon didn’t give himself time to think about it in too much detail before disappearing into his bedroom and indiscriminately stuffing some clothes into a messenger bag he hadn’t used since university. There wasn’t much to grab; his flat had always tended toward the sparse and he didn’t have many personal effects he would miss outside of clothes. Georgie had always made fun of him for his almost Spartan living quarters, and he idly wondered if Martin would be inclined to do the same. Then he visualized putting that thought in a little box, taping it shut, and stuffing it deep inside the messenger bag alongside his hairbrush and deodorant. Martin was… maybe a friend, yes. But this was still a working relationship.

When he returned to the living room, Martin was examining his bookshelf. “Should have known you were more the nonfiction type,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Jon scoffed. “I’m sure you didn’t need to see my bookshelf to determine that. I imagine my feelings toward your Keats and Wordsworth were obvious enough to make my _literary proclivities_ perfectly clear.”

Martin sniffed. “Keats is _art_ , thank you. Some culture might do you good _._ ”

Surreptitiously, Jon swept an old takeout container from the countertop into the bin. Ordering in too much Chinese food was a kind of culture, probably, but not one he was too keen on bragging about. After two weeks sitting in the flat, it was maybe more bacterial culture than anything, actually. “It’s all so whimsical,” he said. “I prefer to read about real things.”

Martin gave him a look that could not more clearly have meant _I can’t believe you._ “ _Real things._ Poetry is about real things just as much as any of your autobiographies or documentaries.”

Documentaries were, in fact, a substantial part of Jon’s evening routine. Usually in conjunction with the aforementioned Chinese food. He was a man of culture through and through. “What’s wrong with documentaries?”

Hands in the air, Martin grinned sheepishly. “Nothing! They just very much seem like something you would like.”

“Well, I do,” Jon said standoffishly, heedless of the fact that there wasn’t really a reason to be arguing this point.

The look Martin gave him was almost fond, but mostly amused. “I like a good documentary once in a while, myself,” he conceded. “I’m open to recommendations, if you ever have them. Though I haven’t got a TV or anything now.”

“Yes, the Institute’s entertainment accommodations leave something to be desired. On that note, are you ready to go?”

“Oh!” Martin gave Jon’s bag a skeptical glance. “Sure, if you’re sure that’s all you need.” Jon’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, and Martin raised an eyebrow. “On second thought, maybe you need lunch? I, I made you skip your lunch break. We can stop somewhere on the way back?”

Jon dug out his keys and they walked outside. “I’m fine, Martin.”

“Not even that little sandwich stand we passed on the way here? We can eat on the tube, if you’re worried about being late.”

Jon did not remember passing a sandwich stand, but he gave a put-upon sigh. “Fine, I suppose that couldn’t hurt. I’ll tell Sasha we’re on the way.”

Martin smiled. “Thanks.”

Jon didn’t ask what exactly Martin was thanking him for. He had an odd feeling he wouldn’t understand the answer if he got it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I wish I could just let them relax but unfortunately, I just don't think that's realistic for the moment. I imagine Martin was very stressed for at least a few weeks in canon, poor guy :( Things will improve eventually though, I promise!!  
> As always, let me know if you're enjoying my writing!! I'm always thrilled to hear any kind of commentary, you guys never fail to make me smile :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: generalized paranoia, minor discussions of worms.


	9. Nightcrawler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living in the aftermath of a worm attack isn't very conducive to a lot of sleeping. Jon and Martin's nights are typically spent in rather unpleasant ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! I know I said I wasn't going to get very nasty with this fic, but I DID get quite nasty this chapter. It's an unusually intense one in more ways than one, so I would highly recommend checking out the content warnings if things like worms and injuries tend to be unpleasant for you to read. That being said, it's also possibly my favorite chapter so far, and I really hope you like it!! :)
> 
> Edit: I'm here from the future to announce that there's art for this chapter now!!! I'm so excited!!! Thank you so much to [swaddled-carriage on tumblr](https://swaddled-carriage.tumblr.com/) for [this wonderful art](https://swaddled-carriage.tumblr.com/post/636589283973742592/tending-to-nighttime-scratches-a-drawing-of-one-of)!!!
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.

_Jon itched._

_He had itched for weeks, but it had always been skin deep. He had never felt it like this, stinging and sharp and visceral and_ deep. _He itched right down to the bone. Deeper. His muscles twitched and writhed of their own accord, and he could tell without looking that he was_ full. _The knowledge sat in his throat like bile and squirmed like so many tiny segmented bodies, and his entire mind was occupied with the awareness that if he screamed, he would choke on them._

_This was not something that could be fixed with a steady hand and a pair of tweezers._

_It was possible he lay on the floor of Martin’s flat, the door splintered beside him and Prentiss looming over him with that horrible smile, like when she looked at him he was already full of holes. He might have laid in Carlos Vittery’s basement, where even the man-eating spiders stayed in their dusty webs rather than approach his corrupted form. It was impossible to tell, but did it matter where one decayed?_

_Through the wriggling mass that pulsed and squeezed around his every thought, he managed a brief, fervent wish that Martin was elsewhere. That the same fate had not befallen him, and that he didn’t have to have the image of Jon’s infestation burned into his mind. Had he still had eyes he could see out of, Jon was sure he would have recoiled at the sight of his own body. With awful clarity, he could feel dozens- no, hundreds- of discrete holes in his flesh, open and gaping like grotesque pores. He was almost grateful for his blindness._

_But he was not grateful. He was not grateful for one simple reason: he absolutely refused to harbor anything approaching positive feelings for the sickly silver worms that had made him a home. And this was for its own distinct reason. He knew with absolute certainty that just as they had Jane Prentiss, the worms loved him. He knew that they loved him for his enormity, for his capacity to contain them all and feed them with his body and for what a beautiful hive he made. He knew that Jane Prentiss loved them back, and that he would die if he did not love them, and, above all, he knew that he would rather die than love them the way they wanted him to._

_He could not move. This was not surprising. He was no vessel; he was a banquet. His muscles and vital organs were long devoured, pulped and severed by the thousand vicious mouths chewing through him. He did not know how he still lived, if this could be called life. He did not care. There was no point in wondering, what with how preoccupied he was with_ feeling _everything happening to him. Each second brought a new agonizing itch zinging through him, ever deeper and deeper until his whole body may as well have been aflame with it. He strained and gasped, the motions shifting the bodies inside him ineffectually, but he could never scratch because he could not move his arms._

_He itched. He had itched forever, and he itched and itched and itched and-_

A sharp pain lanced through his hand, and he jolted into consciousness. His entire body was coated in sweat, and the thin sheets were twisted around him in such a way that his lower half was nearly immobilized. For a paralyzing, terrible second, he still itched, and he nearly fell off the cot in his frantic scramble to check for worms.

Running a shaking hand over his arms and torso revealed no gaping holes or adoring worms, but his palm came away hot and slightly sticky where his compulsive scratching had drawn specks of blood. He grimaced. When he was finally satisfied his entire body was unscathed save for the crescent moons of fingernail marks, his breathing slowed a bit and he turned his attention to what had woken him. By the light of his torch, he found that there was a small bead of blood on one of his fingertips, too concentrated to be the result of scratching.

Careful to keep the pricked finger off the sheets, he rustled the blankets around in search of anything sharp until his hand slipped under the pillow and touched something cool and solid. He stilled, retracting his hand to a safe distance and standing quickly from the cot. Angling the torch at the bed, he cautiously curled his fingers around the edge of the pillow, then whipped it away to reveal… a corkscrew.

It was the same kind of regular corkscrew Jon had in his flat for the unlikely event that he had visitors who liked wine at some point. He had never used it to his memory, but in his defense it had seemed like a terribly adult purchase when he had moved into his first flat. This particular corkscrew looked just as brand new as Jon’s but for the spot of blood gleaming at the tip. It was quite clearly the culprit, but its presence raised more questions than it resolved.

Martin had had some work to do that would take until late in the night, so he had encouraged Jon to get some use out of the cot in document storage. Jon had needed very little coaxing; he was bone tired and the break room couch was almost as uncomfortable as sleeping hunched over at his desk. Martin had, of course, been paranoid and jumpy since their return from the flat, but Jon believed him to be resourceful enough to find better means of defense than this. Surely there was at least a knife in the kitchen.

There was also tea in the kitchen, which Jon decided he sorely needed if he was to have any chance at a few more hours of sleep. Perhaps he could even persuade Martin to interrupt his work long enough to show him how he brewed it.

As he padded into the break room, however, he stopped short at the sight of Martin fast asleep on the sofa. His neck was bent at what looked to be a painful angle, he had no blanket, and he wore only a threadbare short-sleeved shirt and pants. Jon was frozen. All thoughts of tea evaporated from his mind, replaced with panicked plans on how to leave the room as unobtrusively as possible.

Before he could take so much as a step backward, Martin stirred and blinked blearily at him, eyes glinting in the low light. “Jon?” He propped himself on an arm and squinted at Jon, paralyzed in the doorway. “You alright?”

Through the alarm bells blaring in his head, Jon managed, “Why do you have a corkscrew?” Immediately after he heard the words leave his mouth, he shook his head at himself and tacked on, “I just wanted a cup of tea. I’ll go.”

“No, no.” Stifling a yawn, Martin heaved himself upright. “God, what time is it?” He squinted in the direction of the clock, frowned, fumbled for his glasses, and properly grimaced when he saw the time. “I shouldn’t sleep here anyway. That thing does horrible things to my back.”

“Probably on purpose,” Jon noted. “Discourage sleeping on the job, and all that.”

“Right, right. Well, it’s the first couch I’ve seen with an agenda.” Martin stood, tugged on the hem of his shirt, and seemed to realize his state of undress judging by the nuclear blush that took over his entire face. Less steadily, he went on, “Would you, uh, hit the light over there? Can’t make tea in the dark.”

Jon obligingly fumbled along the wall until his fingers brushed the switch and squeezed his eyes shut in preparation as he flooded the room with light. Behind the glaring red burning at the backs of his eyelids, he heard a sharp intake of breath and briefly regretted not issuing a warning before peeling his eyes open to see Martin looking at him with a mix of agony and horror.

“What happened?” Martin asked, so gently it put Jon abruptly, nonsensically in mind of a riddle he had once heard. _What is so fragile that saying its name breaks it?_ Martin spoke like Jon was silence. His eyes, mournful and wide, rested on Jon’s exposed arms.

Jon cast a look down at himself and had to fight to keep his own face in check. It seemed he had scratched more than he had realized in the night, and half-dried bloody streaks adorned the vicious scratches that covered every inch of his forearms. Immediately, he began tugging at his sleeves where he had shoved them up above the elbow during his search for worms, desperate to cover the wounds of a fight that hadn’t even been happening.

Martin aborted his path to the kitchenette and made his way to Jon, deepest concern lining his face and forming a crease between his eyebrows. He extended his hands toward Jon’s raw arms like an offering, a salve, and Jon snatched his hands back and clutched them to his chest, heart suddenly in his throat at the thought of feeling anything moving against his skin. “No touching,” he choked out, and Martin instantly backed away with his hands up.

“That’s okay,” he said, still in that skittish-animal soft tone. “I- I won’t touch. Is it okay if… can you tell me what happened?”

Jon finished tugging his sleeves all the way down and clawed his fingers into the hems. Stiffly, looking anywhere but at Martin, he forced himself to say, “I scratch in my sleep. Whenever I dream of her.”

When he dared a glance at Martin’s face, it was raw with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Jon,” he said, sincerity pouring from every syllable. “That sounds _awful._ I-” His hands fluttered aimlessly in front of him. Voice reed-thin, he finished, “I’ll make us some tea, shall I?” He didn’t wait for an answer before pacing to the kettle, throwing an anxious glance over his shoulder at Jon every few seconds.

“Thank you,” Jon said, his own voice suddenly as raw as Martin’s. He stumbled further into the room and sat heavily on the sofa, only registering his actions when the leftover warmth of Martin’s sleeping body began to seep into his legs. He couldn’t bring himself to care enough to get up.

Martin put the kettle on, then busied himself fiddling with something Jon couldn’t make out at the sink. After a minute, he made his way back over to Jon and sat very cautiously on the other end of the sofa, about as far as he could get from Jon without sitting on the armrest. In his hand was a damp tea towel, which he pinched at one end and offered to Jon. “In case you want to clean up a bit.”

Wordlessly, Jon accepted and almost dropped the towel as his fingers came in contact with it. It was unexpectedly warm. His heart clenched involuntarily at the gesture, and he awkwardly pushed his sleeves back up one-handed and dabbed tentatively at his forearms. Streaks of red began to dye the white fabric, and as the stickiness dissipated Jon felt gradually more human. “I’ve ruined the towel,” he said remorsefully.

“You haven’t,” Martin said, shuffling to sit a bit more comfortably. He held out his hand in a silent offer to take it back. Jon dried his arms with the bottom half, leaving a few more rusty streaks behind, and gave it to him. “And even if you had.” Martin shrugged, as if to say _these things happen._

_They don’t,_ Jon thought. _Not unless you’re extraordinarily unlucky._ Out loud, he said, “Thank you, Martin.” His own voice was almost as soft as Martin’s. He nearly didn’t recognize it. When he next spoke, he made sure his tone was a bit more respectable. “So, why is there a corkscrew in your bed?”

“Oh.” Martin’s grip on the bloodied cloth tightened. “It’s, ah, kind of weird.” The kettle chose that moment to begin shrieking, and Martin leapt up with a look of great relief. Jon followed him to the counter, keen to get an idea of how Martin brewed his tea, and ended up hovering by Martin’s shoulder as he filled two mugs and gave Jon an odd glance.

Mentally logging the kind of teabag Martin plopped into the mugs, Jon said dryly, “Martin, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but a great deal of things are currently _kind of weird._ ”

Martin just bobbed the teabags up and down and, after a moment of observation, Jon reached a cautious hand toward one of the mugs in a silent question. A look of confusion passed over Martin’s face briefly, but then he said “Oh!” and pushed it closer to Jon. Smiling faintly, he observed Jon’s teabag-dunking technique for a moment before speaking. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Not much _normal_ going on these days. The corkscrew is…” He sighed. “I’m kind of paranoid, right now? It’s- well, this is kind of gross. Are you sure you... you want to hear it right now?”

Jon gave him a halfhearted, disdainful look. “Don’t patronize me. It can’t be more disgusting than the tea towel covered in my blood you were just holding.”

“It wasn’t _covered,”_ Martin protested. “And I- I’m really sorry, I don’t want to patronize you, but you’ve just had a bloody- _literally_ bloody- sorry- worm-related nightmare! Forgive me for not wanting to, to traumatize you further-”

“ _Martin.”_

Martin sighed. “Fine.” He fixed Jon with a wary look, clearly gauging his reaction. “The corkscrew is to… get worms out of people. With the way they move, I figured it would be easier than…” Martin looked a little unwell himself. He swallowed. “Just cutting them out.”

“Oh.” Jon’s stomach turned, but he was careful not to give Martin the satisfaction of showing it on his face. His hand stilled on the teabag. “That does sound… rather efficient.”

“Told you it was gross.” Martin leaned heavily on the counter and took a careful sip of his tea. Jon took this as a cue to try his own. It was scalding hot and tasted like every other cup of tea Martin had made for him. He couldn’t really see the nuances involved. “You’ll want milk,” Martin added. Jon retrieved milk from the fridge and added a splash, and found after a taste that he did in fact want milk.

As Martin poured milk into his own mug and dug out a spoon for sugar, he said softly, “I’ve been dreaming of her too. I’m sorry that’s happening to you.”

“Your arms aren’t scratched,” Jon pointed out.

“No.” Martin rubbed his free hand over an exposed, unblemished forearm. “I always wake up if I scratch. A blessing and a curse, I guess.”

Jon hummed his agreement. “I take it you’ve been getting about as much sleep as I have.”

“Thereabouts,” Martin mumbled into his mug.

Averting his eyes, Jon muttered, “Sorry I woke you.”

“Oh.” Martin smiled faintly in Jon’s periphery. Combined with his tousled hair and sleep-rumpled clothes, it was quite a vulnerable effect, and Jon ducked his head further in defense. “It’s fine, Jon. I would have regretted sleeping there in the morning anyway.” Jon didn’t respond, and after a moment Martin tacked on, “Have you, uh, considered using socks?”

Jon coughed a bit into his tea and stared at Martin, then looked pointedly down at his sock-clad feet.

“I mean-” Martin had gone slightly red about the ears. “As gloves, I mean. To stop you scratching.”

A note of amusement crept into Jon’s voice as he said, “Are actual gloves… not a suitable option?”

Martin huffed. “Do you _have_ gloves?”

“I… oh. I don’t.”

With a triumphant, smug smile, Martin said, “Thought so. I’ve never seen you wear gloves.”

“I can’t fathom how you noticed that.” He gave a small, self-conscious smile. “But the socks are… not a bad idea.”

Martin made a little humming noise that probably meant _told you so_. Jon wanted to bristle, but he just ended up with a weak grin. It instantly slid off his face when Martin turned to face him fully, nodded in the direction of his arms, and asked, “Mind if I take a look?” The tips of his ears were tinged bright red, but he pressed on, “I know some first aid.”

“I assure you I am not in need of first aid,” Jon said, but hesitated only a second before rolling his sleeves back up. The worst of the itching had faded, and alarm bells no longer blared in his head at the very thought of contact. Still, Martin hovered his hands a safe distance from Jon’s skin as he looked. Jon imagined he could feel waves of heat emitting from Martin’s hands as they fluttered awkwardly around his forearms.

“It’s alright,” Jon managed after a moment of this.

Martin’s eyes flicked up to his, hands freezing in place. “What?” 

God, was he really going to make him say it? Jon sighed, a harsh puff of air. Stiffly, he said, “I’m not going to panic. If you touch me.”

“Oh. Right.” If anything, Martin’s face flamed brighter. Instead of coming into contact with Jon’s arm, his fingers curled inward on themselves in a miniature retreat. He gave Jon a questioning look. “Do- Do you _want_ me to?”

Well. Jon had dug himself quite a hole now, hadn’t he. He couldn’t very well say _yes_ , regardless of whether he’d recently had cause to remember that physical reassurance could be very nice, actually. “I- You _can._ I just don’t want to give you the impression I’m some sort of- of-”

“ _Jon._ ” Finally, Martin’s fingertips alighted on his wrist. So, _so_ gently. “You don’t have to explain. It’s fine.” With a care Jon himself had only ever dedicated to his grandmother’s fine porcelain, fingers came to wrap loosely around his wrist. They were _very_ warm. Martin’s other hand came to skate lightly over his forearm, examining the markings there, and a shiver rushed down Jon’s spine at the sensation. “Okay,” he said quietly. The word almost got caught in his throat, and Martin gave a small, sad smile at the sound before turning his arm over and examining the more delicate skin of Jon’s inner arm.

“None of these are too deep,” Martin determined after a while. “We could wrap them up if you like, but otherwise it can’t hurt to let them breathe.”

“No, no, that’s alright.”

“Okay.” With one last gentle squeeze of his wrist, Martin’s hands retreated and wrapped back around his tea. “I’m sure they’ll be better soon,” he offered.

Jon had always had an intense dislike of being pitied. At the slightest sign of it, he tended to raise his hackles and start snapping and griping until the feeling went away. It never took too long; he had deliberate unpleasantness down to an art form.

This felt like it should have sent him into a fine state, gnashing his teeth and wielding insults like spears and shoving up thorny walls against Martin’s softness. But there was none of that. Instead, something warm was flaring in his chest, like his ribs were abruptly too small for his chest.

As he hid his too-warm face behind his mug and replied, “Yes, I’m sure they will,” he decided that maybe he was alright with that.

* * *

_[Electronic records from the communications of Martin Blackwood. Files retrieved from 18 th March, 2016.]_

[To: Jonathan Sims]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Jon? Are you still here? (Delivered 12:03am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Sorry to text you at this time of night but please tell me if you went home (Delivered 12:03am)_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Did Jon tell you he was going home?_ _(Delivered 12:04am)_

**Sasha James:** _No??? (Delivered 12:05am)_

**Sasha James:** _Why?? (Delivered 12:05am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Shit (Delivered 12:05am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _He’s not in his office (Delivered 12:05am)_

**Sasha James:** _What?? (Delivered 12:06am)_

**Sasha James:** _Okay don’t panic. Is there anywhere else he could be? (Delivered 12:06am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Already checked break room and library (Delivered 12:07am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _He’s not texting me back Sasha (Delivered 12:07am)_

**Sasha James:** _Okay that’s not great but do NOT panic. He probably fell asleep somewhere (Delivered 12:08am)_

**Sasha James:** _You know he does that sometimes (Delivered 12:08am)_

**Sasha James:** _Have you called him? (Delivered 12:08am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Not yet didn’t want to overreact (Delivered 12:09am)_

**Sasha James:** _Call him!!! (Delivered 12:09am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Yeah ok (Delivered 12:09am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached the voicemail of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as I am able. Right, where’s... uh… ah. There we-]_

_[“Hey Jon, it’s Martin! Listen, I- I’m sure everything’s fine, but please call me back so I know you’re safe? Or text me, or anything? I just, uh, can’t find you at the Institute and, uh, heh, you know me, I’m a little worried! Just, uh, call me back please.”]_

[To: Jonathan Sims]

**Martin Blackwood:** _I know it’s late and you’re probably sleeping but you did say you would tell me if you were going home and I can’t find you at the Institute (Delivered 12:11am)_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _He’s not picking up (Delivered 12:11am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Oh god what do I do (Delivered 12:11am)_

**Sasha James:** _Let me try calling him (Delivered 12:11am)_

**Sasha James:** _He might just not have your new number saved (Delivered 12:12am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _He does. I made him save it (Delivered 12:12am)_

[To: Jonathan Sims]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Jon I am kind of freaking out here (Delivered 12:13am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Please please tell me you didn’t get eaten by worms (Delivered 12:13am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Jon, please (Delivered 12:14am)_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Anything?? (Delivered 12:14am)_

**Sasha James:** _No. Voicemail_ _(Delivered 12:15am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _God (Delivered 12:15am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I have to go over there (Delivered 12:16am)_

**Sasha James:** _Over where??? (Delivered 12:16am)_

**Sasha James:** _MARTIN (Delivered 12:17am)_

**Sasha James:** _MARTIN WHERE ARE YOU GOING_ _(Delivered 12:17am)_

**Sasha James:** _His flat?? Do you even know where that is?? (Delivered 12:17am)_

**Sasha James:** _Please don’t do anything stupid (Delivered 12:18am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Yeah his flat. I know where it is (Delivered 12:18am)_

**Sasha James:** _And you’re just going by yourself??? (Delivered 12:18am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached the voicemail of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Leave-]_

[To: Jonathan Sims]

**Martin Blackwood:** _I’m coming to you (Delivered 12:19am)_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Don’t worry I’ll keep in contact with you (Delivered 12:19am)_

**Sasha James:** _Martin this feels like a very bad idea (Delivered 12:19am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I don’t exactly have a choice (Delivered 12:20am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Heading out now will check in every five minutes (Delivered 12:20am)_

**Sasha James:** _Please be careful (Delivered 12:20am)_

**Sasha James:** _Should I come meet you (Delivered 12:21am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _No just keep in touch so you can call someone if you need to (Delivered 12:22am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached the voicemail of Jonathan Sims-]_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Passing that Indian place (Delivered 12:26am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _All clear so far (Delivered 12:26am)_

**Sasha James:** _Eyes on the road please (Delivered 12:27am)_

**Sasha James:** _Wait how will I be able to tell if it’s still you texting me (Delivered 12:28am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I brought a dog to the Institute once (Delivered 12:29am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Can’t call you I need to keep calling Jon (Delivered 12:29am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached the voicemail of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist-]_

[To: Sasha James]

**Sasha James:** _That works (Delivered 12:30am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _On the tube now (Delivered 12:32am)_

**Sasha James:** _Good. I’m still calling him too just so you know (Delivered 12:33am)_

**Sasha James:** _Keep an eye out (Delivered 12:33am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Yeah (Delivered 12:34am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Thanks Sasha (Delivered 12:34am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached the voicemail of-]_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _What if he’s not okay (Delivered 12:36am)_

**Sasha James:** _He will be (Delivered 12:36am)_

**Sasha James:** _Martin? (Delivered 12:38am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I don’t know what I’ll do if he’s not (Delivered 12:38am)_

**Sasha James:** _He will be okay (Delivered 12:38am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Leaving tube now. Just a few more mins (Delivered 12:39am)_

**Sasha James:** _Copy that (Delivered 12:39am)_

**Sasha James:** _Be careful (Delivered 12:39am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached-]_

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _I can see his flat. Nothing weird (Delivered 12:44am)_

**Sasha James:** _Good (Delivered 12:44am)_

**Sasha James:** _Prove it’s you please (12:44am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I’m at the door (Delivered 12:45am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I used to think your name was Sarah (Delivered 12:45am)_

**Sasha James:** _Oh I forgot about that (Delivered 12:46am)_

**Sasha James:** _Let me know when you find Jon (Delivered 12:46am)_

_[Caller unavailable: Jonathan Sims]_

_[You’ve reached-]_

[To: Jonathan Sims]

**Martin Blackwood:** _I’m outside your flat (Delivered 12:47am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Going to knock (Delivered 12:48am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Please don’t panic (Delivered 12:48am)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _And please be in there (Delivered 12:48am)_

Martin flinched at the sound of his own knock. It echoed loudly in the darkness, and there was no sign of movement from behind Jon’s curtains. His heart was in his throat, had been for the last half hour, and now it virtually threatened to crawl right out of his chest.

“Jon?” He called lowly, and threw a cautionary glance over his shoulder. “Jon, it’s me, are you in there?”

There was no response. Martin knocked again, already of half a mind to call Sasha in a panic. His thumb was hovering over the _call_ button when a light flicked on in the flat, and Martin jumped even as he let out a massive sigh of relief.

“Jon?” he called again. “Open up?”

His phone buzzed in his hand, and Martin nearly jumped out of his skin at the sensation. He had it to his ear before he could even register the caller ID, and at the sound of the voice on the other end he breathed deeply for the first time all night.

“ _Martin.”_ Jon’s voice was tight. “ _There’s someone outside my flat. Is it you?”_

“Yes!” He was almost short of breath with how hard his heart was pounding. “Jon, Jon, are you okay?”

Instead of answering, Jon opened the door and ended the call. Martin was so weak at the knees with relief that he nearly didn’t register the stormy expression on Jon’s face. His lips tugged downward into a displeased frown and his eyes glinted with frustration and a distant spark of fear. Martin faltered.

“Why are you _here,_ ” Jon snapped, voice like a cord stretched too far.

A wave of indignation washed over Martin, and distantly he felt his own face contort into an expression not unlike Jon’s own. “Why do you think I’m here, Jon? You _vanished_ , middle of the night, and didn’t tell a single one of us where you were going!” Desperate for some kind of anchor, he shoved a hand into his hair. It shook slightly, and he couldn’t even tell if it was the result of all the pent-up fear he’d been carrying around or his mounting irritation at Jon’s carelessness. “I thought you were _dead,_ ” he said, and his voice gave an ugly crack. “ _Dead,_ Jon.”

By the time Martin finished his outburst, the sharpness of Jon’s expression had dulled somewhat, but a defensive sort of ire still emanated off him. “Well.” Jon crossed his arms a touch unsteadily. “As you can see, I’m not dead. In fact, I was sleeping.”

An array of towels was clearly visible on the floor in the sliver of light behind Jon, where they had presumably blocked the door and been shoved aside. Some of Martin’s desperate energy subsided as he imagined Jon, alone and afraid, sealing off his home in preparation for facing Prentiss on his own this time. The thought sent a pang through him. A touch accusingly, he said, “I was worried about you, you know. You can’t just disappear like that.” He gave Jon a quick once-over, taking in the tension in his frame, the dark circles beneath his eyes, his tight grip on the doorframe. “ _Are_ you alright?”

“I’m _fine_ , Martin,” Jon said, kicking a towel out of view. He considered Martin for a moment, then sighed with annoyance. “I suppose I should invite you in.”

Martin was quite proud of himself for only stammering a little when he replied, “Oh, you, you don’t have to. I’ll just be heading back…” He glanced at the darkened street behind him, already dreading the anxious walk to the Institute. He wouldn’t even have his concern for Jon to distract himself from his own imminent demise this time.

Jon grumbled something under his breath and stepped back, pulling the door open wide enough for Martin to enter. It was clearly an invitation, but Martin just stood in stunned silence for a moment. When he said, “You _really_ don’t have to,” it came out small and unsure, and he found himself already taking a tentative step forward.

“Just get inside,” Jon said, with a brusqueness that seemed to imply he was very much being kind to Martin against his will. “You shouldn’t have walked here by yourself anyway. That was a foolish thing to do.”

“I- I was texting Sasha,” Martin protested weakly as he crossed the threshold. _And it’s not like you have room to talk._ “Oh, I should let her know we’re alright, actually. Just a sec.” He lifted the phone to his ear. Sasha answered immediately.

_“Are you okay?”_

“I’m fine. Jon’s here, he’s fine too.”

_“Oh, thank god. Do me a favor and ask him what the_ hell _he was thinking.”_

Martin smiled a bit, vindicated, and turned to Jon. “Sasha wants to know what the hell you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t-” Jon threw his hands up in frustration, apparently at a loss.

“He wasn’t,” Martin reported, stoically ignoring Jon’s indignant spluttering. Oh, he was going to get in a fair bit of trouble for this, he was sure, but Jon kind of deserved it for the heart attacks he’d given them. “It’s alright, though, I’m being assured it won’t happen again.”

Jon was openly glaring now, his arms crossed and a deep scowl lining his face. “If you’ve quite had your fun, I’d like to go back to sleep.”

_“That’s good,”_ Sasha said. _“Listen, do you need me to stay on while you get back to the Institute?”_

“Um.” Martin’s eyes flicked nervously to Jon. “Yes? I’ll be heading back in just a second-”

“You will not,” Jon said sternly.

“Sorry, Sasha- what?”

“You’re staying here,” Jon said, sounding both like Martin was overlooking the world’s most obvious truth and like it was a supreme inconvenience to have to correct him. It was an intense effect somewhat mitigated by his soft pajama pants and open, tousled hair.

Martin swallowed. “Jon, I can just-”

Jon cut him off. “I’d argue you’ve lost the right to protest after coming to my flat at an ungodly hour uninvited. My sofa pulls out and is perfectly serviceable.”

“I-” Baffled, Martin just stared at the resolute expression on Jon’s face. When he found his voice, he said into the phone, “Actually, Sasha, it’s, uh. Fine.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. _“You know Tim’s never going to let you hear the end of this, right.”_

He sighed. “I know. Good night, Sasha. Thanks for your help.”

_“Good night. No more worm scares for a while, okay?”_

“Yeah, sorry. I promise.”

_“Bye, Martin.”_

“Bye.” He hung up and looked pensively at Jon, who was clocking in at about a six on the Archivist Irritation Scale. “You know you’re not obligated to do this, right?”

Jon huffed. “Obviously.” He began prying at the sofa cushions in search of the folding mechanism.

Because he _really_ didn’t fancy walking back through the dark alone, Martin bit back the argument sitting on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said the next best thing. “I’m sorry I woke you.” If there was one thing Martin Blackwood could do, it was hedge and apologize six ways to Sunday.

Jon just grunted something indeterminate and managed to pull something that clicked sharply before extracting a rickety-looking metal structure. Martin had to clamp his lips shut around the “Watch your fingers!” that threatened to escape. He had a feeling questioning Jon’s ability to set up his own foldout couch would worsen things significantly. He dithered for a moment, standing rather helplessly on the sidelines, and as he watched, Jon got the bed fully unfolded and turned to Martin with a look of deep consideration.

After a minute, in a tone that suggested he was drawing the words out by force, Jon said, “You didn’t wake me.”

The words themselves were innocuous enough, but they were said with the air of a confession. Martin avoided letting his eyes drift to the towels scattered by the door. Softly, he replied, “I’m also sorry for knocking.”

The distress that tore across Jon’s face for an instant was enough to tell Martin he’d uncovered the root of the problem. “I know you are,” Jon said. He wasn’t meeting Martin’s eyes, and there was a deep undercurrent of exhaustion in his voice. “I saw your messages.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. Carefully, he sat on the edge of the bare mattress and, in a burst of boldness, patted the spot beside him. Jon threw him a wary glance but sat, a good foot away from where Martin had indicated. Martin met Jon’s eyes very seriously and said, with as much sincerity as he could muster, “I still scared you, though. I’m sorry.”

Jon’s frown deepened for a moment, and Martin saw his hand clench on the edge of the mattress. For a single insane second, he decided he was going to reach over and cover that hand with his own. It would be so easy, and now that he knew how warm and delicate Jon’s hands were he could practically feel the tingle on his fingertips. Jon had sounded almost like he had wanted Martin to touch him that night in the break room. Maybe he wanted this, even a fraction as much as Martin did.

“You just knocked,” Jon said eventually, effectively derailing Martin’s train of thought. “It’s…” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and the pit in Martin’s chest yawned. “It’s _fine._ ”

He didn’t look even remotely like he believed it. Martin’s heart cracked in a way that felt like it should have been audible. “It doesn’t have to be,” he said, daring to shuffle a little closer, just enough that he could imagine leaning in and putting an arm around Jon. “You don’t have to be fine, you know.”

Jon just stared down at his own hands where they twisted in his lap and let out a long, slow breath. “Thank you,” he said finally. “For checking on me. I… you’re right. I shouldn’t have gone without telling you.”

The voices in his head yelling _please hug Jon now_ reached a crescendo, and he had to focus to speak over them. “Of course I came,” he managed through a throat that was rapidly closing up. Damn it, he _couldn’t_ let Jon make him cry right now. “I told you I would, didn’t I?” A small, choked laugh escaped him. “But- please do tell me next time? I, uh, I talk a big game, you know, but that was _very_ stressful _._ ”

Jon echoed his weak laugh and finally looked Martin in the eye again. “I imagine it was. I’m. I’m sorry for that.”

This time, Martin couldn’t stop himself. He reached out to bridge the gap between them and squeezed Jon’s hand where it had fallen limply back onto the mattress, his heart hummingbird-quick in his throat. “I forgive you,” he got out, then pulled his hand back before Jon could comment on it. Courage, it seemed, was quite an ephemeral thing.

Jon’s eyes flickered between where Martin’s hand had been and his face, which had certainly changed colors in the last few seconds. Looking a bit shell-shocked, he swallowed visibly and, voice raw, said, “I’ll find you some blankets.”

_Tim will never let you hear the end of this,_ Sasha whispered in his mind. As he lay on Jon’s pullout couch, face pressed to a pillow that really did smell a bit like Jon this time, he couldn’t help but think how right she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! This chapter was a ton of fun to write, and I hope it was just as much fun to read. As always, I owe all of my productivity in this fic to all of you - all your kind words mean the world to me, and I certainly wouldn't have gotten this far or had this much fun without them. Thank you and have a great day, everybody! :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: graphic descriptions of worm infestation, self-inflicted injury (not deliberate self-harm, but may be similar enough to be disturbing), paranoia


	10. Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin spend what passes for quality time under threat of worm infestation together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I CANNOT believe my chapter count is in the double digits now. What a feeling!! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

“Jon?” Martin poked his head cautiously into Jon’s office in time to see him setting aside a tape recorder. That was lucky; the better a mood Jon was in, the more of a chance Martin would have, and an interrupted statement was never conducive to a good mood. “I’m going out to lunch. D’you want to come?”

The nice thing about having asked Jon this question almost every day this week was that it had given Martin ample opportunity to practice tamping down the jitteriness and stammering that usually accompanied asking Jon for things. No point being nervous when he already knew the exact outcome of this interaction. He could have set a watch by Jon’s answer.

“No, thank you.” There it was. Right on time.

“You sure?” Martin asked with a personable smile. He let a light teasing note creep into his voice. Jon seemed in a fairly good mood, after all; might as well push his luck. “I’m going to that new place around the corner. I hear they’ve got really good dumplings.”

Jon shuffled some papers about on his desk. “I can’t say I trust Tim’s recommendations. I once saw him eat a tuna fish sandwich that he’d also put peanut butter on.”

Even as he grimaced in sympathy, Martin couldn’t stop his heart lurching at Jon’s casual (correct) assumption that it was Tim who had mentioned the restaurant. There was a certain degree of offhand familiarity that apparently accompanied surviving near-death experiences together, and he was absolutely reveling in it. “As, uh, despicable as that is, he can usually be trusted with restaurants,” Martin said. “He’s the one who showed me that Thai place. You had some of the leftover fried rice from there the other day?”

Jon nodded pensively. “That was good fried rice.”

“Very good,” Martin agreed. “So, are you reconsidering, then? It’s got to be good for you to get out of the archives sometime – personally, I’ve been feeling almost as cooped up as in the flat, and _I_ leave from time to time.”

“No, no.” Jon waved a hand. “I have several statements to finish up on. I’d better stay.”

“Jon, you’re _literally_ living here. I can’t imagine you need to work a full twenty-four hours of the day.”

“I _do_ sleep, you know.”

“ _At your desk!_ That hardly counts, not to mention it must be dreadful for your back.” Jon rubbed at his back self-consciously, and Martin gestured as if to say _case in point_. “Look, I, I won’t keep bothering you about it, but taking breaks from work is normal. Healthy, even. Helps with productivity. I read a study about it just the other day.” That was patently untrue, but Martin knew for a fact that such studies existed and that Jon was easily swayed by scientific research, so he didn’t really bother feeling guilty about it.

“Your concern is noted,” Jon said dryly. “Enjoy your lunch, Martin. Maybe I’ll join you next time.”

He had known full well this would be the outcome, but something sunk in Martin’s chest anyway. Jon had made the same empty promise several times before. “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, another blatant lie, and shut the door behind him as he headed out alone.

No sooner had Martin crossed the street outside the Institute than he registered the sounds of footsteps slapping on the pavement behind him. He whirled, half-afraid he was about to be attacked in broad daylight, only to find Jon, slightly winded and more than a little red in the face, waving a hand to flag him down.

Martin gave him a moment to catch up and asked, slightly baffled, “Hungry after all, then?”

“Uh. Yes. Yes, I suppose so.” Jon took a long breath and, in an odd sort of balance, Martin’s breath hitched a bit. Jon must have run all the way from his office; there was color high on his cheeks and several strands of hair had escaped his ponytail. It was a _very_ striking effect. God, Martin really was hopeless, wasn’t he?

He pulled himself together enough to say, “Well, I’m glad for the company. Tim, uh, Tim and Sasha eat with me sometimes, but they went earlier today and I was still working, and it all just didn’t line up.” His fingers twitched nervously, and he tucked them into his pockets before smiling hopefully at Jon. “I think you’ll like this place, though. Supposed to be quite good.”

“Yes, well, I’ll take your word for it.” Thankfully, Jon appeared to be almost as out of sorts as Martin was. He cast as many nervous glances behind him as he had when they had first escaped the flat, and nervous energy vibrated off him palpably. They had walked the length of about a block when Jon blurted, with the air of someone throwing themselves off a ledge, “Do you know I haven’t left the Institute for lunch once since we got back?”

_Yes,_ Martin thought. It was hard not to notice Jon’s self-imposed house arrest when he lived, worked, and slept a mere few rooms away from him. “Was it the scientific study that finally convinced you?”

“I’m unfamiliar with the study you’re referring to,” Jon said a bit peevishly. “But I must admit, it does feel rather nice to… stretch my legs, as it were.”

Martin smiled. “Much nicer than spending the whole day in that gloomy building, I always think. It’s lovely today.”

“Unseasonably so.” Jon let out a long exhale, tilting his head upwards slightly. The afternoon sun gilded his face in such a way that made Martin abruptly wish he were a painter, so he could capture the way the light fell on Jon’s half-lidded eyes and filtered through his hair. “It’s… been a while since I’ve been out in the sun,” he admitted.

In his distraction, Martin’s shoulder bumped Jon’s; it was like he was orbiting him, drawn ever closer in a Pythagorean spiral. Jon was more of a black hole than a planet that way. All-consuming and unknowable. “Downright vampiric of you,” he said mildly, already suppressing a smile in anticipation of Jon’s reaction. “Add that to the never sleeping, and you’ve got a statement in the making.”

Jon, to Martin’s great vindication, gave an exaggerated shudder. “Don’t even joke about that. You have no idea how many nonsensical vampire statements I’ve read in the last week alone.”

“More than you reasonably should, I’m sure, with how much you’ve been working.”

Jon glared at him with no real heat behind it, and Martin was briefly overcome with a swell of warmth at the sheer domesticity of it all. Here they were, arguing lightheartedly about work hours while on the way to lunch, like a _couple,_ or even friends. It didn’t help that they were, in a sense, living together, a realization that had nearly taken Martin out at the knees a few nights before.

“You laugh now, but perhaps you’ll take this more seriously when a dozen fake vampire statements are on your desk for review,” Jon said, snapping Martin out of his rose-colored daze.

“Well,” Martin said very reasonably. “By then I imagine you’ll have moved on to werewolves, so it’ll all balance out, in a way.”

Jon laughed, actually laughed, and Martin beamed.

They wound up in a park.

The restaurant was overfilled to the point that finding a seat, much less two, would have bordered on miraculous, so they ordered to go and wandered until they came upon a small patch of green scattered with park benches and the occasional picnic table. It was quite nice, actually, shaded by copses of trees and mostly shielded from the worst of the sounds of London traffic. Martin pointed them toward an unoccupied picnic table, and Jon nodded his approval as they walked.

“You know, magpies are among the most common birds in London,” Jon was saying, craning his neck as he presumably watched one such specimen. He was focusing intently enough that it made sitting down at the picnic table rather difficult, and Martin looked on with some amusement as Jon balanced birdwatching, a precariously tilting container of takeout, and the process of maneuvering himself onto the bench with some semblance of dignity. Martin couldn’t see any magpies about, but Jon clearly could by the intensity of his gaze. “Right bastards, they are,” he tacked on as an afterthought.

Martin huffed a laugh. He had nearly forgotten how much he liked seeing Jon relaxed (well, as relaxed as he ever got) and _not_ in fear for his life. “What have magpies ever done to you?”

Jon turned to Martin and gave him a deeply indignant look. “They’re thieves, Martin. Quite intelligent, yes, but they use their intellect for evil.”

He fought to swallow down the swell of laughter that threatened to emerge and managed only very poorly. “And-” He took a moment to compose himself- “What have they stolen from you, then?”

“My favorite pen,” Jon grumbled, stabbing at his noodles.

“Ah, that’s a shame. Snuck into the Institute while you were recording, did it?”

Jon mumbled something indistinct, not meeting Martin’s eye.

“Sorry, what?”

Jon scowled. Barely intelligibly, he grumbled, “It was in uni.”

Martin’s lips twitched involuntarily. “And you’re still holding a grudge?”

He got a _properly_ disdainful look for that. “It was my _favorite_ pen.”

Martin couldn’t help himself; laughter burst out of him like a valve had been opened. “Sorry, sorry,” he choked out between peals of laughter. Jon was looking slightly miffed, which unfortunately only made Martin laugh harder. He could only imagine the expression on Jon’s face had been similar when the miscreant bird had flown off with his pen. Finally, he got himself under control enough to manage, “That one bird was enough to ruin the whole species for you?”

Jon sniffed. “Certainly not. Magpies are fascinating, and it would be quite shallow of me to hold the entire species in low regard. They’re one of the only creatures that can recognize themselves in a mirror, did you know that? They’re extremely intelligent and can mimic all sorts of sounds. I admire them. But,” Jon drew himself up into a haughty stance, quite a feat considering he was also gesticulating with a pair of chopsticks, “That doesn’t mean I _like_ them.”

“Must have been quite a pen,” Martin said, barely keeping his voice in check, and Jon finally cracked a reluctant smile.

“It _was,_ I’ll have you know.”

“Mm. Exceptionally shiny, I’ll bet.”

Jon choked on a laugh. “Irrelevant.”

Martin grinned. “Tell that to the magpie.”

“Martin. I _tried._ It was my _favorite pen-_ ” Jon broke off, a look of mild satisfaction on his face as Martin dissolved into laughter again.

It was almost like playing cards in the flat again. Those had always been the closest things to lighthearted moments in between Prentiss’s bouts of knocking, and Martin had optimistically tucked their doctored deck into his bag when he’d been collecting his things. Fancifully, he’d hoped they could still play once in a while back at the Institute so that fragile sense of camaraderie wouldn’t fade. He was starting to think they wouldn’t need cards at all, though. The faint smile curling Jon’s lips was proof enough of that.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Jon said later, when they were leaving the park and Martin had had to stop himself just staring at Jon no less than three times.

Martin threw Jon a wary glance. “What did I say?”

Jon made a shape in the space before him with his hands, as if trying to grasp the words he was searching for out of the air. “About staying at the Institute.”

“I…” Martin was missing something here, certainly. “Yeah? I thought you decided to stay there for now?”

They turned onto a busier street, the almost idyllic sanctuary of the park vanishing behind them in the space of a few steps. “I did,” Jon said. He paused to toss his takeout container in a bin. “But my current living situation is…” His lips twitched into a slight frown. “Unsustainable.”

With a dawning sense of dismay, Martin said, “Don’t tell me you’re going back to your flat.”

“No,” Jon sighed. “Much as I wish that were a viable option, I… don’t particularly like the idea of going back there at the moment.”

A small measure of tension melted back out of Martin’s frame. “Good. I- I don’t much like the idea of that either.”

There was a certain kind of gleam Jon got in his eyes when something about a statement vexed him, or right before he decided whether a case was worth taking seriously. As it was turned on Martin, he found himself irrationally glad statements weren’t sentient; he felt quite distinctly _evaluated_ , like Jon was looking right through him to the soft, besotted core inside. Luckily for Martin’s innermost emotions, this didn’t last especially long, and Jon averted his eyes and said, “I’ve been considering arranging something more… permanent in the Institute.” It sounded like a confession.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Martin said, slightly perplexed at the reluctance dripping off Jon’s every word. “What have you got in mind, then?”

“Well.” Jon scuffed his shoe on the pavement, his jaw clenching against the words. “Would you consider it excessive to bring in a second cot?”

I-” Martin spluttered. “Jon! _Excessive?_ ”

The look Jon gave him was… difficult to parse, and that was considering Martin had spent the last several months of his life cultivating a comprehensive understanding of Jon’s facial expressions. There was defiance there, as was standard for Jon, but something in the shifting of his eyes also spoke of defensiveness, like he was bracing himself against an oncoming attack. Martin was put suddenly in mind of a cornered animal raising its hackles to seem bigger, and something quietly fell into place in his mind. Tightly, Jon said, “I’ll take that to mean you don’t.”

“Of course not,” Martin said in the most encouraging tone he could muster. “Sounds like a great idea, actually. You’re staying there anyway, might as well have somewhere more comfortable than your chair to sleep.” He paused long enough for a too-obvious detail to catch up to him, and nearly stumbled over himself in his haste to overcorrect. “You- you can have your old cot back if you want! Sorry, I didn’t even think- Of course you should have it, now that you’re-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon interrupted. “In theory, I have a flat to go back to, and you don’t. I’ll be setting up a second cot in my office, and you’ll keep the first.”

“In practice,” Martin countered, “neither of us have flats to go back to. We can take turns, if you don’t want to take the cot outright.”

Jon considered him silently for a moment, then broke eye contact as they crossed a street. “Like old times,” he said eventually, something unidentifiable lacing his voice.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed. It was wrong for him to _miss_ certain parts of being trapped in the flat, wasn’t it? “Like old times.”

* * *

There weren’t many things Martin prided himself on. He liked to think of himself as loyal, sometimes to a fault. He made good tea and usually knew how best to dry people’s tears. The poetry he wrote was good, on occasion. And he knew how to keep a smile on his face, no matter what.

He was smiling as he returned to the Institute as he passed by the front desk, waved a friendly greeting to Rosie, and made his way into the archives, where he could find a door to close behind himself and just let himself be hurt for a while.

It was Saturday, so there was nobody to run into on the way to document storage. Martin was already starting to relax, to let the affable façade slide off him and settle into the depths of his mind, when the door to the break room opened just as Martin passed it and Jon walked in. They both stopped short, and Martin’s face settled immediately back into an approximation of pleasantness without even having to put in any effort.

“Ah,” Jon said, with a glance up to the clock on the wall. “Is it that time already? Wait just a moment, I’ll get my coat.”

He disappeared from the doorway, and Martin looked up at the clock as well. It was just gone noon, and something heavy settled in his chest as he sighed. Surely it was a positive development that Jon no longer needed prodding to come out to lunch with Martin after the last few days, but for now it just meant Martin would have to keep smiling for at least another hour with his mother’s words rattling around in his head. That was fine, he supposed. What was one more hour? Maybe if he kept it on long enough, the smile would turn genuine.

“Now, I’ve been craving something with spice,” Jon said conversationally as he reappeared, tugging on his coat, and Martin found that fondness stung when it had to pierce through a veil of sadness to be felt. “So unless you have any objections, I’d like to recommend the Persian place on Fifth.”

“Sounds good,” Martin said brightly. “Just, uh, just a second?” He made to walk in the direction of document storage, fully intending to shut himself in the dark room for a second to steel himself or at least _breathe_ and desperately hoping Jon hadn’t noticed he was already wearing his coat. Before he made it to the door, though, Jon said, “Are… are you alright, Martin?”

_Perfect. Great._ “Fine,” he replied, throwing a look over his shoulder that he hoped was nonchalant enough to convey the same message. The flash of Jon’s face he caught in the motion was contorted into a frown that reminded him a bit too much of when Jon had extracted the worm from his hand. Concern tempered by mild horror. _Not_ a great sign for Martin’s acting skills, then. He tried, “I just need to get something? I’ll be right-”

“Martin.” There was resolve in Jon’s voice now, which didn’t bode especially well for Martin’s composure. When Martin turned to face him, Jon’s arms were folded across his chest and his face was stony. “If you would rather have lunch alone, I’d prefer if you just told me.”

“What?” The carefully maintained pleasant expression on Martin’s face faltered, but at least it was replaced with confusion and not abject misery. Saturdays were always days for small victories. “No, Jon, I- I don’t want lunch alone. Why would I-” He tugged a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to ground himself. “I’m just having… kind of a hard day, that’s all.” He wondered idly if Jon was the type to consider withholding information a kind of lying. He probably was. “I’ll be ready for lunch in a second.”

“Oh.” For a moment, Jon appeared almost struck dumb. Something in his posture shifted and became abruptly more fragile, like his crossed arms were holding the discrete parts of him together instead of radiating stern determination. Looking so supremely out of his depth that in other circumstances Martin might have laughed, Jon said, “Do you… want to talk about it?”

Martin blinked. This was not an eventuality he had prepared for. Deflection was practically instinctual at this point, so before he could even consider the alternative, he was saying, “Oh, that’s alright. You don’t have to, uh… It’s fine, Jon.”

Jon seemed to deflate slightly; for relief or disappointment, Martin couldn’t tell. “Right,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you, then.”

“Y- uh. Yeah. Okay. Be back in a minute.”

As Martin turned and finally made his way into document storage, the heaviness that had dissipated slightly with the distraction returned full force, and he found himself fighting to drown out his mother’s voice in his head with his own thoughts. She hadn’t even said anything particularly horrible, he thought miserably, sitting heavily on the cot with a creak. It had been all the usual things, subtle comments about how she really had been just fine on her own, except for the aches Martin had never been able to help with anyway, and hadn’t he just visited her the other day, and wasn’t he still working at that ridiculous institute? Surely he could do better. Never mind that he had missed two weeks of visits during Prentiss; she hadn’t been pleased to see him the first time he made it back after the flat, and she certainly wasn’t happy he was back on his normal schedule.

He hadn’t bothered to turn the light on. It was infinitely easier to confront his thoughts in the dark. Martin had been sure that given the opportunity, he was going to cry, but now there was only numbness. Each of his breaths came heavy and with the aching suggestion of a sob behind it, but nothing came of it. It seemed he couldn’t even grieve right.

Not crying felt much worse than crying; there was a lump like a sizable rock in his throat, and he felt like he was balancing on a cliff’s edge, tilting and swaying over the precipice but never managing to brave the fall.

He sat in pitiful, solemn silence as long as he could justify, then swallowed thickly and scrubbed his hands over his face. Best just to put it behind him. He had a lunch date to keep, even if he was bound to be miserable company. He spent the walk to the break room reassembling his mask of composure.

Jon was hunched over the counter in the break room. At the sound of Martin’s footsteps, he whirled around to face him, a teaspoon clutched in his hand and something like guilt written all over his face. On the counter behind him were two steaming mugs.

_Oh,_ Martin thought, and his face crumpled.

“Oh _no_ ,” Jon said, with a look of absolute horror. He shuffled to the side so his torso blocked the mugs from sight. “Martin, I-”

“Thank you,” Martin choked out. He sincerely doubted it was at all intelligible, but Jon’s visible alarm waned enough that he must have at least partially taken his meaning. His breath came in little shuddering hiccups, and he wiped frantically at his eyes with a sleeve. These were not the shattering sobs that had threatened in document storage. It rolled over him in low, swelling waves, and after a moment Martin didn’t try to stop it anymore. Jon stood frozen across the room, seemingly afraid to speak but not quite horrified enough to leave.

“Sorry,” Martin managed a minute later, when the sleeves of his sweater were thoroughly damp and he was left with only the occasional hitch in his breath. “I, I keep crying in front of you, it’s not…”

“Martin.” Jon’s tone was firm and chastising. He had picked up one of the mugs (not Martin’s favorite, but one he liked well enough) and taken a cautious few steps forward. His grip on the mug was tight as he said, “I am… not very good at this. At… people.” He gestured at himself, then made a circling motion wide enough to encompass Martin and the dreary aura he was certainly giving off. The gesture sent the tea sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “But I do know that you have nothing to apologize for. It’s- it’s alright.”

Martin sniffed, warding off another swell of tears. His voice was something dreadful, but he said shakily, “I think you’re pretty good at. This.”

Jon gave a begrudging smile and pressed the tea into Martin’s hands. “I’d try that before you make any sweeping generalizations. I, uh, don’t really know how you take it.”

Martin’s lips twisted into a watery smile, and he took a cautious sip. It was, objectively speaking, not very good tea, but Martin found himself liable to cry into it anyway. “It’s great,” he said. “Thanks, Jon. Really.”

“You’re not a very good liar,” Jon observed as he returned to the counter to pick up his own mug and took a sip. He gave the tea a distasteful look, but raised it to his lips again. Martin drank too, letting Jon’s words more than the tea warm and loosen the knot in his chest.

“I assume this has something to do with Prentiss,” Jon said eventually, with a voice like treading on eggshells.

Martin sank onto the couch and took a deep sip from his mug before answering. “No, not her. I… It’s horrible to say.” He fidgeted with the ceramic handle as Jon took a few shuffling steps closer. “I went to visit my mother.”

“Oh.” The couch dipped as Jon sat on the other end of it. His expression had darkened somewhat. “Yes, that’s right. It’s Saturday.”

Momentarily caught off guard, Martin raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Saturday.”

Jon’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, and he took a deep breath before asking, “Does seeing your mother always upset you so much?”

Martin chuckled, wetly and humorlessly. “I’m not usually this bad.”

Jon made a displeased noise in his throat. He sipped at his tea, grimaced again, and said, “I find it hard to believe you’re at fault here.”

“She’s in a care home,” Martin said with a heavy sigh. The part of him not occupied with self-pity was mildly surprised at how simple it was to surrender that information. “Doesn’t much like it there, but it’s better than me taking care of her. I… I could have found her a better place.”

“Could you?” Jon asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice. Martin faltered. “You’re a researcher,” Jon went on. “Surely you have an understanding of the facilities that meet your mother’s needs.”

He _did,_ was the thing. Martin had done extensive research when the time had come to find a home, and the place he had settled on was absolutely the most suitable he could find in his budget, but she was _still_ unhappy. “We’ve established I’m not a very _good_ researcher,” he said, but instead of taking the obvious bait and agreeing, Jon just made a derisive noise. 

Martin stared blankly into his tea, silently weighing how great a tear his heart would be able to sustain. There was already a good deal of scar tissue there, he thought. One more wound- well, it _would_ hurt, of course it would, but he would survive. “It’s not the home,” he said finally, voice dangerously fragile. “It’s _me,_ Jon. Always has been.”

Jon made a sound that might have been a scoff, and Martin was too numb for it to sting. There weren’t many nerve endings to be had in such thick scar tissue, after all. “Martin,” Jon said sternly. Like a puppet whose strings had been pulled, Martin lifted his head to face him, studiously avoiding eye contact. “I don’t say this lightly. You are… without question, one of the kindest and most caring people I have ever met. If you care for your mother the way you care for-” he cleared his throat a touch uncomfortably- “for everyone else, your mother is very lucky indeed.”

And just like that, Martin was on the verge of tears again. They threatened to spill over as he met Jon’s eye and found nothing but raw sincerity there, backed by Jon’s intrinsic stubbornness. A single sob burst from his throat, and before he could lose momentum, he asked, strangled, “Can I hug you?”

“Oh.” Jon’s face went blank with shock, but he didn’t back away. “Yes,” he said softly, as if in wonder. “That would be alright.”

Martin barely remembered to set his mug down before virtually collapsing toward Jon, wrapping his arms more fiercely around Jon’s shoulders than he had dared that night in document storage and settling his weight heavily on Jon’s slight frame. Jon bore it with ease. He clutched Jon to his heart like a talisman, breaths coming in shuddering bursts as Jon shuffled awkwardly closer and threaded his arms under Martin’s to press lightly on his back. Jon was so warm, bundled in the heavy coat he had intended to wear outside, and Martin’s hands fisted slightly in the thick material as he breathed Jon in. He was parchment and generic shampoo and linen, and it hit Martin like a soporific.

Jon was mumbling something vague and reassuring Martin couldn’t make out, and as he tried to rein himself in enough to loosen his grip on Jon’s coat, Jon started sweeping a hand in slow, firm circles across Martin’s back. He had to squeeze his eyes shut then, overcome with the sharp ache of affection he was so familiar with. He had had literal fantasies less daring than this; he had to soak in every sensation, just in case he was having an especially cruel dream that would be shattered at any moment. The press of Jon’s fingers, slender and strong, against his shoulders; the puffs of warm air where Jon breathed out on Martin’s jumper in a steady rhythm; the near-uncomfortable jostle of their legs crowded together on the sofa; the singular point where their chests brushed together, which was rapidly being reconfigured as the center of Martin’s personal universe: Martin catalogued it all, mentally filing the entire experience under _Dreams, Impossible_. He would never want for poetic inspiration again.

Incredibly, Martin was the one to pull back after what felt like a lifetime but could have been a minute or two at most. Jon looked just as shy in the aftermath as Martin felt, cheeks flushed with color and eyes flicking anywhere but Martin’s face. There was a slight pleased tilt to his lips, though, and as Martin cast about for something to say, Jon said, “I, uh, I would ask that you refrain from mentioning this to Tim.”

A genuine laugh startled out of Martin, and some of the heavy sadness that still lingered evaporated like raindrops sizzling on hot pavement. “Yeah, I wasn’t planning on it. He’d get way too much joy out of this.”

Jon smiled and stood from the couch. “Good. Now, what would you say to some lunch?”

Well. Who was Martin to say no to an offer like that?  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Honestly, I had a REALLY hard time writing this chapter for some reason, so I hope you enjoyed it and couldn't tell how much I was agonizing over every few lines! Great news, though: this week, I finally got a grasp on how I want to end this whole fic!! It may not be especially comforting to know I went into this without it all planned out, but rest assured, there's a pretty solid skeleton for the rest of it now. I'm going to have to do some research and possibly play fast and loose with the mechanics of canon, but I'm VERY excited about where this is going. 
> 
> See you next Thursday! Thanks for sticking with me for so long :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: discussions of Martin Blackwood's mother (indirect references to neglectful/cruel parent/child relationship)


	11. Additional Security Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin struggles to deal with both some unwanted visitors and a good deal of unsolicited advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for all the Tim fans out there... I love that man so much and his friendship with the rest of the archives crew is so sweet. Enjoy!! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

“It’s the cardigans, isn’t it.”

“The-” Martin stared. “Tim, _what?_ ”

“I mean, it can’t be the conversational skills, or, you know, the _general aura of friendliness_ ,” Tim said very reasonably, as though he had been in the room for more than thirty seconds and hadn’t just flung himself into his chair with typical reckless abandon. He propped his chin on a hand and raised a teasing eyebrow. “I’m just trying to understand, Marto. You know me, I’m a researcher through and through.”

“How much coffee have you already had this morning?” Martin asked weakly.

“ _Not_ important,” Tim said, through a toothy grin that put Martin’s estimate between three and five cups. “What _is_ important is that I get some insight into the romantic appeal of our mutual friend Mr. Sims, because I love the guy, you know I do, but I would not in a _million years_ want to date him. You spent two weeks in close quarters with him, and not only did you not tear each other to shreds, but you somehow ended up with bigger heart-eyes than when you went in. _So._ ”

“Caffeine addictions are really unhealthy, Tim.”

“So’s pining. People have actually died of heartbreak, did you know that? Actually died. What would I do if you died, Martin? Who would I heckle about their love life? Sasha? I already know everything about _her_ romantic endeavors, and besides, she’s not as much fun to tease as you are.”

Martin dropped his head down on his desk with a _thunk_ and a muffled groan. “It’s not the cardigans,” he said as clearly as he could with his face smashed into the wood.

Tim hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, so not a sexy librarian-type thing then. Damn, I really thought I had it that time.”

Martin sputtered and raised his head enough to glare. “Tim! We’re at work!”

“I know!” Tim said, with a bit more enthusiasm that Martin had been bargaining for. “And so is Jon, which means I see you giving him these sappy looks all the time! What am I supposed to do, _not_ show an interest in my dear friends’ love lives? I’m only human, Martin.”

It was at this point that Sasha walked in, folded her umbrella, wrinkled her nose, and said, “More worms outside than yesterday.”

Martin instantly forgot the futile protests he had been building up to. “ _What?”_

“Not your worms, Martin, don’t worry.” She shook out the umbrella and leaned it against her desk. “They’re kind of gross-looking, but definitely not aggressive. I think they just love all this rain we’ve been having.”

“Hm. At least someone’s enjoying it,” Tim said. “I stepped in a puddle on the way here and now I’ll have wet socks all day.”

Martin caught himself before he could itch at the squirming sensation on his arm, but he couldn’t stop himself pushing up his sleeves just in case. “I don’t like this,” he said unsteadily, pushing himself to his feet and making for the door. “I’m going out to check. I shouldn’t be longer than five minutes, okay?”

Tim was already out of his desk, which was rather impressive given the knot he had twisted himself into in his chair. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m coming with you.”

“Oh!” A pleasant flare of warmth ignited in Martin’s chest. “Thanks, Tim.”

“Don’t mention it. Friends don’t let friends get eaten by evil worms alone, am I right?” He grinned broadly at Martin as he tugged on his coat. The look on Martin’s face must have been quite a sight, because he added with marginally less vigor, “Okay, that was maybe in poor taste. My point is you’re not going alone. Besides, I’m not letting you off the hook that easy.” He winked, and Martin buried his face in his hands with a groan.

_“Thanks,_ Tim.” The intonation was a bit different this time.

“Are you still on this?” Sasha asked from her desk. “Leave him alone, Tim, I already told you it’s the distinguished professor thing. You must have better things to do.”

Martin made a mortified squeaking noise, face still firmly clutched in his hands. “You two are the worst,” he said over his shoulder, and walked out. He didn’t have to look behind him to see if Tim was following; it took more than a halfhearted jab to make Tim give up.

On the steps of the Institute, Martin stopped dead and breathed, “ _Shit.”_

It was pouring rain; every inch of visible ground glistened with mud and puddles. Dispersed across the pavement, however, were tiny, shinier metallic streaks that writhed in time with the ripples of raindrops. Martin took an involuntary step back and bumped into Tim, who steadied him with a hand on his shoulder and gave him a concerned look.

“You’re kidding,” Tim said, without an ounce of levity left in his voice.

“That’s them,” Martin confirmed dully. His throat was constricting as he spoke, and all he could think of was the worm that had _launched_ itself at him in Carlos Vittery’s basement. The stairs were clear of worms for no discernible reason, but he and Tim were more than likely in range.

“Do they not have to stay with their, their _host_ or whatever the fuck Prentiss was?” Tim asked, sounding almost as rattled as Martin felt.

“I’ve never seen them away from her,” he replied numbly. “I think-” he swallowed down the crawling sensation in his throat. “I think they _feed_ on her, you know? I- I don’t know why they wouldn’t have attacked Sasha when she came in, that doesn’t make any-” He broke off, the blood draining from his face. “We should go.”

Martin only managed to keep up a semblance of calm for a few steps, and then he was running.

“I need you to check your legs,” he gasped as soon as he burst through the door to the archives, thoroughly startling Sasha and slamming the door into the wall with a sharp _crack._

Sasha’s eyes were wide, and at Martin’s demand they turned frantic. “ _Those_ are your worms?” Her head instantly vanished behind her desk as she ducked down to run her hands over her calves.

Martin nodded, heedless of the fact that Sasha’s attention was firmly fixed elsewhere and she definitely couldn’t see him from her vantage point. “Are you sure none of them came near you?” The corkscrew wasn’t anywhere to be seen on his desk, but then again Sasha also hadn’t screamed in terror and pain upon finding a worm in her leg yet, so maybe that was okay.

An agitated huff came from behind the desk. “They didn’t really move at all! That’s why I didn’t think they were Prentiss’s, they were just kind of laying around!” Her head emerged from beneath the desk, curls newly wild and framing her face haphazardly. “Nothing on my legs, Martin.”

“Okay. Okay.” Martin took a shaky breath, stopping his panicked ransacking of his desk drawers. The corkscrew was probably still in document storage anyway. “Are you sure? I, I didn’t feel it at all when one got my hand, and I just-”

“I checked twice,” Sasha said calmly. “I’m fine. Breathe.”

Martin breathed. It did slow his racing heart a little, but then Tim said, “We should let Jon know,” and Martin’s heart was instantly back in his throat. In the deepest recesses of his mind where panic couldn’t reach, he noted with some frustration that this job had to be terrible for his blood pressure.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we should.”

“I assume you’ll want to be the one to do that, right?”

“ _Not_ the time, Tim!” Martin snapped, and immediately grimaced at the sharpness in his own voice. “ _Sorry._ I didn’t mean. Sorry.”

Tim raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, it’s all good. I actually wasn’t trying to rile you up or anything that time, believe it or not. I just figured, since you two’ve been so close since… everything. You’re the man for the job.”

“Close,” Martin repeated numbly, and managed not to make it sound like a question. “O- okay. I’ll just… go do that then.”

To his credit, Tim didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at the blush creeping up from Martin’s collar. Martin almost wished he would. It would have alleviated some of the guilt, at least. As it was, all he could do was mumble one more apology over his shoulder on his way out of the room.

An hour later, Jon had been hesitantly, uncomfortably briefed, the Institute lobby had been thoroughly searched (much to Rosie’s concern and dismay), and Tim was carefully maneuvering himself and a bulging plastic bag into the archives, saying, “How do you think Elias would feel about some minor construction work?”

Possible impending worm siege aside, the look on Jon’s face was something Martin was sure he would treasure for a very long time.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Sasha said amenably, and Jon’s pained expression intensified.

Tim set the bag on the nearest vacant desk and began pulling out what he had loosely classified as ‘supplies’ over the phone. A dozen-odd cheap hand towels, several rolls of duct tape, a screwdriver, what appeared to be a small drill (at the sight of which Jon paled slightly), four cans of bug spray, some odd-looking screws, and four Toblerones were systematically piled on the table until the bag was empty and Tim stood off to one side, looking quite proud of himself.

Martin picked up one of the screws and gave it a quizzical once-over. There appeared to be glass on the head instead of the usual Phillips-head cross, and the actual screw portion of it was wide and hollow.

“Peepholes,” Tim supplied helpfully, nodding at the screw in Martin’s hand. “After how long you said you were waiting at the door in your flat, I figured it couldn’t hurt to have a way to see what’s on the other side of any doors.”

Jon made a little _hmm_ noise under his breath and, equal parts wary and impressed, said, “That’s quite a good idea.” His eyes shifted to the mound of supplies on the desk. “I… suppose this is also what the drill is for.”

“Got it in one.”

Jon frowned. “I’m afraid this will constitute property damage, you know. The employee handbook puts a strange emphasis on arson, but I’m certain other types of destruction are frowned upon as well.”

“Arson?” Martin said, lips twitching up into a smile. “I know there’s a lot of paper in here and all, but it can’t be _that_ big a problem.”

“Only you would memorize the employee handbook, Jon,” Sasha added fondly. “Think of it this way- if Prentiss gets in, there’s going to be a whole lot _more_ property damage. We’re doing the Institute a favor.”

Tim put up his hands placatingly. “And if Elias has a problem with this, I’ll spackle over the holes myself. It’ll be fine.”

Jon sighed, rubbing at his temple. The motion almost dislodged his glasses, and Martin’s heart twinged a bit at the sight. Tim was right; he could expect death by pining any day now. “Alright,” Jon said. “I see your point. But know that I will deny any involvement in this to my dying breath if the doors end up looking like Swiss cheese.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less, boss,” Tim said cheerfully. “Shall we, then? Lots of doors in the archives, after all!”

As it turned out, there were exactly sixteen doors in the archives counting closets and decrepit offices. Over the course of two hours, Martin developed a rather refined system of rolling up a hand towel lengthwise, stuffing it under the door, and duct taping the whole affair in place so the doors could still be opened, albeit with some difficulty and a distinctive _shhhhk_ sound. It involved an unpleasant amount of lying flat on the dusty archive floor, but it was at least preferable to Tim’s self-appointed task of installing the peepholes. From the few glimpses he had gotten, Jon was hovering closely enough to render drilling nearly impossible.

“Listen.” Tim’s voice drifted through an open door, thinly veiled irritation making an appearance. “I know what I’m doing, Jon. Why don’t you, I don’t know, go see what Martin’s doing. Or have a Toblerone. Hell, read a statement. _Anything_ that’ll have you out of the room, just for a minute.”

Jon grumbled something indistinct and tetchy, and Martin had just enough time to get to his feet before the door behind him swung open with that new dragging sound and Jon emerged.

Martin smiled tentatively, brushing dust from his jumper. “Tim finally gave you the boot, huh.”

“I do not _hover,_ ” Jon sniped, and Martin had to try very hard not to reach out and smooth out the wrinkles on Jon’s brow. It was really very unfair that irritation looked good on Jon. Where frustration hardened Martin’s face and stole what little charm he had, it gave Jon a tiny crease between his eyebrows and tugged the corners of his lips into a stern frown. Which wasn't to say Martin _preferred_ Jon angry; quite the opposite actually. What few real smiles he had seen had nearly sent him into a state of shock. The problem was that there was _always_ a certain charm to Jon, even when he was vaguely frustrated. 

“Want to take a break?” he said. “I’ve just finished with the towels here, and I could do with a cup of tea. I even rescued our cards from my flat a while back, if you’re up for a game.”

Jon’s face was quite unreadable. He raised his eyebrows and frowned in a way that was equally likely to be a sign of consideration as it was to indicate disapproval. “You kept the cards?”

Martin grinned sheepishly. “We do have a score to settle.”

There was definitely a flicker of interest in Jon’s eyes for a moment – Martin may have been a hopeless romantic and an optimist, but even he was above completely making things up – but it passed almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by what Martin had started to think of as Jon’s Archivist face. “I really ought to get back to work,” he said. “We’ve lost enough time here already. I may as well do my best to pick up the slack.”

Martin tested the door to ensure it would still open, then shut it and leaned a shoulder against the frame. “It’s already half noon,” he tried, hoping fervently that he didn’t sound as desperate as he feared. “Can I at least convince you to have some lunch first?”

Jon faltered, a deeply conflicted expression taking root on his face. Martin let him flounder for a second, then took a moment to send out a silent prayer that Tim wasn’t eavesdropping and said, “Well, you don’t have to. But you’re welcome to join me. More- more than welcome, actually.”

“I have statements to read,” Jon said, but his tone wavered uncertainly and his hand clenched and unclenched nervously at his side. His lips tightened in a way that looked almost pained, and instead of triumph at managing to give Jon pause, a wave of guilt washed over Martin. Unhealthy eating schedule aside, there was something that felt wrong about trying to coerce Jon away from his job.

“Alright,” he said, probably a bit too cheerfully. “I’ll let you get on with it, then, I suppose. Maybe you could, uh, grab one of those Toblerones Tim got on your way at least, I’m sure you haven’t eaten anything today-”

“No,” Jon said abruptly. Martin hesitated.

“No?”

“No, I’ll…” Jon waved his hand vaguely. “Lunch. I could do with a… distraction.”

“Oh!” It was a genuine smile that broke out on Martin’s face this time. “Good, great! I’ll go find the cards!”

“Just half an hour,” Jon said seriously, but the corner of his lips was twisted upwards ever so slightly. “I’ll find us some good leftovers.”

As Martin passed through the break room to reach document storage, Tim gave him a devilish grin and a thumbs-up.

* * *

When the workday was over and the archives were newly outfitted with all manner of defense mechanisms, Tim appeared by Martin’s desk with his bag slung over his shoulder. “Come out with me,” he said, in a tone friendly enough not to be a demand but firm enough to brook no argument.

Slightly baffled, Martin acquiesced, gathering his things and taking a moment to poke his head into Jon’s office to let him know where he was going. Tim gave him a very pointed look for this, which he studiously ignored. He followed Tim almost in a daze out of the Institute, grimaced as he avoided what worms he could outside and stepped on the rest, and after only a few rain-blurred minutes of walking, found himself tucked into a booth in a small pub.

“So,” Tim said as soon as drinks were set in front of them. “This is an intervention.”

Martin was suddenly deeply glad he’d waited to take a sip of his drink. “It’s a _what?_ ” he said incredulously.

Face like stone, Tim continued, “This is for your own good, Martin. Resistance is futile.”

Whatever Tim had ordered for them was disgusting, Martin found as he took a large fortifying sip. The pained expression his face twisted into was due only in part to the bitterness coating his tongue as he said, “Do I want to know what, exactly, I’m resisting here?”

“This is a long time coming,” Tim sighed. “And it pains me to say this, Martin, it really does. But you have a serious problem, and it’s time we acknowledge it.”

“ _Tim…_ ”

Tim met Martin’s eye. “You need to ask Jon out.”

The sound Martin made was some awful hybrid between a cough and a hysterical laugh. “Wha- I- _no.”_

“ _Yes,_ ” Tim insisted. “And I don’t just say that as someone who would love to watch a real-life office romance play out – although, seriously, that _is_ a benefit.” The look on his face was almost too earnest considering this was a bit of a charade. “As your friend, Martin, I _can’t_ watch the pining anymore. I’m dying over here.”

Martin winced and took another sip from his glass, which only served to worsen his grimace. “Look, I, I’m sorry, Tim. But I can’t do that, you _know_ I can’t. I’ll try and tone down the-” he waved his hands around, desperate to circumnavigate the word ‘pining’, and Tim took the opportunity to interject, “Why not?”

“ _Why not,”_ Martin repeated a touch acerbically. “It’s _Jon._ I _can’t._ ”

“I know it’s Jon,” Tim said. “So what’s the deal? You want to date him, don’t you?”

Martin’s face flamed hot enough that, with any luck, he would soon be able to melt right through the seat cushions and into the floor. Certainly he was approaching the melting point of vinyl. He made an incomprehensible gesture instead of responding.

Tim nodded sagely. Then, very casually, he said, “You know he’d probably say yes, right?”

It was a minor miracle that the spluttering noise Martin made didn’t attract the attention of any of the pub’s other patrons. It was the type of sound that, in unluckier circumstances, might have inspired some well-meaning onlooker to attempt a Heimlich maneuver. “He _wouldn’t,_ ” Martin choked out once he had recovered. He pushed his half-empty glass aside, leaving a streak of condensation behind on the table.

“He might!” Tim had finally dropped the serious, sympathetic front and was now grinning with enough energy to supply power to a small city. “Listen- I get the feeling you’re not taking me seriously. I _really think he might.”_

A knot of something small and cold that felt a bit like dread was beginning to take root in the pit of Martin’s stomach. “No, you don’t.”

“I _do!_ Martin. Would I lie to you?”

Martin considered and found with some dismay that the look on Tim’s face was quite sincere. It must have shown on his face, because Tim said, “Yeah, exactly. Look, I know I don’t really know what’s going on in your relationship with Jon. But he’s been different around you ever since you guys got back, and I really think there could be something there.”

Martin hesitated, sighed, and begrudgingly took the bait. “Different how?”

Tim’s eyes lit up. “Okay, okay,” he said, propping his elbows on the table in preparation for what was apparently going to become a serious explanation. “It’s hard to explain, but I swear he’s been relaxed since you got back. I mean, not _relaxed,_ it’s Jon, but- more open to the idea of relaxing, maybe? Like, he eats lunch now. At a regular hour. _With you._ And he stayed for almost an hour playing cards earlier today, and he only got a little snippy about how much work we missed.” Tim shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I get.”

“Oh,” Martin said a bit weakly. “Tim, I don’t know.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think he’s been acting differently around you?”

An incredulous chuckle escaped him. “I mean, we survived killer worms together. That’ll change the way you act around just about anyone, I bet.”

“Right.” There was a strong undercurrent of disbelief in Tim’s voice. “But you see it, don’t you? _Please_ tell me you see it.”

There was a chipped wooden coaster lying on the table. Martin began to pick at the frayed edges, refusing to meet Tim’s eyes as he mumbled, “I did hug him once.”

“ _That’s_ what I’m talking about!” Tim’s hands drummed an excited rhythm on the table, pounding more or less in time with the palpitations of Martin’s heart. “Context is everything, Blackwood. Spill.”

Between the energy vibrating off Tim and the desperation and mild distress rolling off Martin in waves, they must have almost cancelled each other out, he thought. That was the only reasonable explanation as to why nobody else in the pub was taking notice of them.

“There’s not- nothing happened,” he said. Damage control was very much one of his strengths, always had been. Maybe this didn’t have to spiral horribly out of control. “I was just- it was right after Prentiss, and I was happy to be alive, and I wasn’t thinking. It was _nothing._ ”

“But he let you hug him.”

“I-” Martin threw his hands up, at a loss. “Yeah? He’s more comfortable around me now, maybe? But that means _nothing_ about- about anything else!”

“Okay.” Tim took a long sip from his drink and didn’t grimace in the slightest. When he set his glass down, there was a determined spark in his eye. “That’s fair. Let’s come at this from another angle, then.”

Martin suppressed a groan and resisted the urge to lay his head on the table. It was probably sticky, he reasoned. He could delay the process of crumbling into dust until he was back in the Institute, at least.

“I’ve known Jon for way longer than you have,” Tim said matter-of-factly. “We were in research together for months, and he was way less prickly before he got the Archivist position. Right?”

Smothering his face in his hands, Martin said, “Tim, if you’re trying to make me _jealous-”_

Tim laughed explosively. “I wasn’t, but _damn._ You’ve really got it bad, haven’t you.”

Martin did groan then, the sound muffled by his palms and vaguely reminiscent of low-budget torture foley. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Sure.” Tim’s grin was atomic-bright and bordered on maniacal. “My point is, we’ve worked together for ages. He may not always _like_ me, but I think it’s safe to say he’s comfortable around me. And if I ever tried to hug that man, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“He likes you,” Martin protested, because this was the most manageable part of Tim’s argument he could latch onto.

“Everyone likes me. I’m very charming.” Tim took another swig from his glass. “But I think if I tried to hug Jon, I would come out of it looking like I tried to declaw a cat. Now, this is very important. Did he hug you back?”

Jon _had_ hugged him back the second time, rather warmly in fact, right before he had requested that Tim never hear of the incident. Martin grimaced. He had never been sworn to secrecy about the hug in document storage, and maybe twisting the truth just a bit couldn’t hurt, so… “He did, a bit,” he admitted, warmth creeping steadily up from his collar again.

Tim gave him a look.

“Look, I know,” Martin said, a slight desperate edge to his voice. He was tipping over a precipice, somehow, even if he didn’t quite know what he was falling into. “Okay, it’s been _different._ There was the- the hug, a- and he tried to make me tea a few days ago, and we’ve been around each other all the time, but we’ve been hiding from Prentiss! And that’s all stuff that, you know, it could be, probably is just- nothing! Platonic! It doesn’t _mean_ anything.”

Tim’s eyes practically bulged from his head as he echoed incredulously, “ _Tea? Martin.”_

“It wasn’t very good tea,” he added belatedly, unsure whether that was a point in his or Tim’s favor.

“ _Martin,”_ Tim repeated.

Martin made an agonized sound. “I know. I _know,_ okay? Sometimes I think-” He broke off, helplessly searching Tim’s face as if there would be answers there. There were none, of course; it wasn’t as if the universe was in the habit of making things easy for him. “I don’t know what I think.”

There was sympathy in the lines of Tim’s face somewhere, he thought, possibly in the set of his mouth or the tilt of his eyebrows. It was a bit of an effort to locate it under the thick coating of poorly contained glee, though.

“If you want to know what I think-”

“I’m pretty sure I already know what _you_ think-”

“What do you have to lose?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Martin said, a touch of irritation welling up alongside the confusion and desperation. It was quite a potent cocktail of emotions, and his head nearly swam with it. Or maybe that was the horrible drink he had been sipping at. “My, my _job?_ My dignity? Maybe my friendship with Jon, which, by the way, I didn’t even know I _had_ until a week or so ago?”

Tim pursed his lips. “Right,” he said slowly. “Right. Okay. I see what you’re saying.”

Martin sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

“So maybe test the waters first, right?” Tim continued, undeterred. Martin took off his glasses and rubbed a hand across his eyes. He wasn’t prone to migraines, but maybe that was a condition that could be developed. “Some subtle flirting, some quality time- these are building blocks for a healthy relationship, Martin.”

“I’m _not_ going to flirt with him,” he said, firmly for what felt like the first time all evening.

The look in Tim’s eyes was almost mournful. “So your plan is to, what, pine after him indefinitely and never do anything about it?”

“Tried and true.” Martin shrugged.

“Martin.” Tim fixed him with a stern stare. “You do know you’re a catch, right?”

It took all of Martin’s willpower not to scoff, but judging by the distasteful look on Tim’s face, he didn’t do a particularly good job of hiding it. “I’m serious,” Tim said. “He’d be lucky. Anyone would.”

The coaster, ragged where he had picked off a few splinters, was suddenly very interesting. “Thanks,” he mumbled. His lips twitched, not quite into a smile but seemingly in indecision as they debated over whether or not to frown.

“Hey.” Tim knocked his hand lightly against Martin’s knuckles, and Martin looked up. “At least consider it, maybe? I won’t even be weird about it. I just think this could be good for you, you know? You deserve it.”

Martin flushed, much more pleasantly than all the countless other instances that night, and hummed noncommittally.

Tim seemed satisfied enough with that non-answer, and they sat in companionable silence for a while. Martin took another cautious sip of his drink and remembered instantly why he had set it aside.

“If I do this,” he said eventually, weighing out each word with extreme precision and ignoring the way Tim’s eyes snapped to his like an excitable dog’s, “I’m gonna do it my way. Not, not flirting or just asking him out with no warning or anything.” He sighed, resting his head in his hands so his thumbs pressed on his temples. To the table more than Tim, he said, slowly and methodically, “I’m just gonna talk to him. See if… if I get any sense that he feels the s- anything. And if I don’t-” he raised his head to level a serious look at Tim. “That’s _it._ I’m dropping it.”

If the pub had been dimly lit before, it was now noon-bright with the sheer force of Tim’s smile. “ _That’s_ the spirit,” he said, and there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Against his better judgment, Martin smiled back.

The better part of an hour later, when Tim had escorted Martin back to the Institute, promised to call when he got home, and left him to stew in the promises he had made, Martin pulled out his phone.

[To: Sasha James]

**Martin Blackwood:** _Please tell me you weren’t in on this intervention thing (Delivered 8:32pm)_

**Sasha James:** _HAHAHAAHAHA (Delivered 8:33pm)_

**Sasha James:** _He actually did it??? (Delivered 8:33pm)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I see (Delivered 8:33pm)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _I have no friends. Only traitors (Delivered 8:33pm)_

**Sasha James:** _We only want the best for you Martin :) (Delivered 8:34pm)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Mhm (Delivered 8:34pm)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Sure (Delivered 8:34pm)_

**Sasha James:** _So (Delivered 8:35pm)_

**Sasha James:** _Did it work (Delivered 8:35pm)_

**Martin Blackwood:** _Goodnight Sasha (Delivered 8:35pm)_

**Sasha James:** _Fine I’ll ask Tim (Delivered 8:35pm)_

**Sasha James:** _> :( (Delivered 8:36pm)_

**Sasha James:** _Goodnight! (Delivered 8:36pm)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed seeing Martin finally get some sense talked into him. Tim is so much fun to write, especially when he's meddling in other people's love lives. Also, I'm trying as much as possible to stick with the canon timeline for things like worms starting to appear and such, but there may be small inaccuracies so please bear with me :)   
> Finally, thank you guys so much once again for the wonderful response you've been giving me. If you keep being so nice to me I'll just melt into a puddle, and then who's gonna write the fic??? Have you considered that???
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: minor descriptions of worms, very very minor consumption of alcohol


	12. Case #0160204

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha encounters a Distortion. Things spiral slightly out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my recent notes for this fic read "no one knows what jon will say next least of all jon" and you know what? I think I really embraced that in this chapter. I feel like it got away from me a bit, but I enjoyed it anyway and I hope you will too :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

Jon woke with a knife already in his hand.

He was on his feet before he even had a chance to think, and blinked awake amidst the blur of motion that accompanied tumbling off the break room couch and into a defensive stance. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he listened intently, unsure if what had jolted him from sleep was a real threat or the leftover fragment of a nightmare. It wouldn’t be the first time he had drawn a knife on a dream.

No. Those were footsteps.

They drew closer and closer in the dark, purposeful and quick and heavy, and Jon’s grip tightened on the knife as he took a cautious step away from the door, backing nearly into the hallway that led to document storage. If bad came to worse, that room was well enough sealed that he and Martin could wait out whatever was lurking in the Institute with relative ease.

The footsteps paused, and there was a dragging sound and a creak. It was opening a door.

Not just any door, Jon realized with a sweeping rush of cold. The door immediately outside the break room led to his office. Whatever was coming was _looking_ for him. And if it was Prentiss, she had apparently overcome her disinterest in opening the doors she waited outside. He took another trembling step back. His feet moved as though through quicksand, like the molasses-thick feeling of trying to run in a nightmare.

His eyes were so intently fixed on the break room door that he didn’t register the presence behind him until it spoke.

“What’s going on?”

Jon shouted, whirled, and narrowly avoided gutting Martin with a dull kitchen knife. For a moment, he stood frozen, blade drawn and angled at Martin’s chest, before his mind caught up with his body and he lowered his arm. “I heard something,” he said, hushed and borderline frantic.

Martin breathed in sharply, and the silence that followed was eerie and absolute. The footsteps had stopped. Jon’s heart followed suit.

“Jon?” Martin whispered, voice trembling on the edge of a whimper.

“Get back,” Jon hissed as the doorknob began to twist. “Get back, _behind me-”_

The door slowly slid open- why, _why_ hadn’t he locked it- and the shadows behind it shifted to reveal-

_“Sasha?”_

The light clicked on, burning the impressions of the flare into Jon’s eyelids, and when he managed to blink them away a familiar figure stood in the doorway, eyeing them with nearly as much alarm as was emanating off of Jon. Martin was right, but why Sasha might be at the Institute at some ungodly hour- on a _Saturday,_ no less- was perplexing. Still, Jon lowered his knife and straightened from where he had flinched backward nearly far enough to put his full weight on Martin’s frame.

“What are you doing here,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster given the circumstances.

Before Sasha could answer, Martin exclaimed, “Are you _bleeding?”_

Sasha grimaced and pressed her fingers to a spot on her shoulder where there was indeed a patch of red blossoming on her shirt. She looked a bit _tattered,_ Jon realized, and for some reason that was the detail that sent his pulse ratcheting up again. He had never known Sasha to look anything less than professional and put-together, and there was an intrinsic wrongness to seeing her so rumpled and grim.

“I’m alright,” she said, though her tone of voice was not especially reassuring. Jon wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. “I had… a bit of a run-in.”

“I’ll get a first aid kit,” Martin said, and disappeared in the direction of document storage, where evidently a first aid kit was now being kept. Rather a good idea, actually, Jon thought, even if he was rapidly getting the idea it might have been more apt to just rename the room _storage._

“A run-in with Prentiss?” Jon asked, making a great effort to keep his voice steady. “Or- were you mugged?”

“No and no,” Sasha said, and sat heavily on the couch. Her fingers came away from her shoulder stained shining red. She stared at them numbly, not so much as a frown on her face. “I mean- not really. Not _technically._ There were… worms, but she wasn’t there. I’ll need to make a statement.”

Martin returned during the latter half of this exchange, and the hard set of his mouth was enough to indicate he had heard Sasha mention the worms. “You’re not doing anything until you’re no longer bleeding,” he said firmly, sitting beside her on the couch and setting down an assortment of plasters and bottles. Jon caught a flash of silver amongst the bandages – corkscrews were now being considered standard medical equipment, apparently.

Sasha unbuttoned her shirt enough for Martin to access her shoulder, and he grimaced in sympathy at the sight of the wound. “This might sting a bit,” he murmured, and pressed a rag to her shoulder. Sasha hissed through gritted teeth and grabbed at Martin’s arm with her other hand, digging her fingers in hard enough to leave the surrounding skin taut and pale.

Jon dragged his gaze away from that grip to look Sasha in the face as he said, “How did this happen?”

She let out a heavy, bursting breath. “Kind of hard to explain.”

“Try,” Jon urged. He had always found talking to be an excellent distraction from pain, and Sasha sorely needed a distraction if the tight set of her jaw was any indication.

“There was a worm,” she said, and it occurred to him belatedly that this may not have been the best topic to use as a diversion. Martin gave her an alarmed look.

“What, did you cut it out of your arm?”

“Not exactly,” she said through clenched teeth, and Martin’s eyes flickered to Jon’s, concern plain on his face. He discarded the bloodied rag, smoothed a plaster over the wound, and simply said, “Okay. We’ll figure that out later, yeah? Let’s get you sorted first.”

She took a shuddering breath, favored her left shoulder as she buttoned her shirt back up, and repeated, “I need to make a statement.”

Jon was already nodding as Martin interjected, “Maybe, maybe take a rest first? I mean, it’s-” he craned his neck to look at the clock- “it’s just gone seven and, no offense, Sasha, but you look like you haven’t slept at all.”

“I haven’t,” she said, and huffed out the ghost of a laugh. “Yeah, alright. Just for a minute, though. I don’t want to forget everything.”

“You won’t,” Martin assured her. He laid a careful hand on her uninjured shoulder. “What do you need?”

The look in Sasha’s eyes was so raw and open for a second that something odd and disconcertingly familiar sparked in Jon’s chest. When she spoke, her voice was no longer dull and unaffected. “Can you call Tim?”

Martin smiled understandingly and nodded.

* * *

“Recording ends.”

Jon clicked off the tape recorder and rested his head in his hands. The echoing silence in the absence of the tape’s whirring was oppressive, but it was better than the restless clamoring of his own thoughts.

“Fire extinguishers,” he muttered absently to himself. “Bloody fire extinguishers. All this time-”

The door creaked open, and Martin poked his head in. “All done?” he asked. “I thought I heard you finish talking.”

“Fire extinguishers,” Jon repeated instead of answering. He turned to Martin with a look that he hoped wasn’t as visibly pleading as it felt.

Martin’s face, unsurprisingly, twisted in confusion. “Sorry? Is, uh, is now a bad time?”

“The carbon dioxide kills them, Martin. It’s that simple. We _had_ a fire extinguisher.”

“ _Oh.”_ Martin stepped fully into the room and, after a moment of deliberation, shut the door behind him. “Yeah. Sasha was just telling me what happened. We, uh.” He gave a short chuckle. “We could have had it a bit easier, huh.”

“Apparently,” Jon said derisively. “And yet the only thing that occurred to us was to use it as a blunt force weapon. Ridiculous.”

Martin hummed in agreement, audibly displeased. “I was thinking about that too.”

“We could have just _left._ We had exactly the tools we needed, and we just didn’t use them.” Jon huffed in frustration. “I just can’t wrap my head around it. _Why_ didn’t this occur to me?”

“Hey now.” There was something that might have been a warning note in Martin’s voice. It was difficult to tell, though; given how rarely Martin was stern or serious, Jon hardly had a reference point for what that might have sounded like. “I won’t have you beating yourself up for something that isn’t your fault. If anything, really, I should have thought of it. It was my flat, and I even made up a list of anything we could use against her.”

Jon started to make a noise of protest at that, but Martin cut him off. “We made it, didn’t we? And- and it’s not like fire extinguishers are something you think of as conventional weapons, so I don't blame you for not considering it. Besides, I was thinking, we don’t even know if it would have worked against Prentiss herself.”

The chair creaked a loud complaint as Jon leaned back in it and folded his arms. “Why not?”

“Well.” Martin sat in the chair opposite Jon’s. “Sasha never saw Prentiss, just her worms, right? And it may have worked on her worms, but who’s to say she would have been affected at all? And that’s not even taking into consideration whether the extinguisher was even still functional, because maintenance is _not_ my landlord’s highest priority, or if there would have been enough CO2 to take care of all of them.” He propped his elbows on the desk and looked Jon dead in the eye, with an intensity Jon didn’t think Martin could have managed a mere month ago. “I tried to blame myself at first too, Jon. But I’ve got a whole laundry list of reasons why that’s pointless. You can take your pick.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I do believe it would have been effective, you know. Based on the look of her, Prentiss was more worm than actual human body mass when we saw her.”

Martin just gave him a considering look, waiting. Jon swallowed down the urge to say something contrary on principle and sighed. “I… suppose what’s done is done.”

“Yeah.” A small measure of tension visibly drained from Martin’s frame, and it occurred to Jon that Martin might have been waiting for the blame to be pinned on him. There was… a bit of a precedent for such a thing, if he was honest. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” he said after a while, unable to settle on any configuration of the words _it’s not your fault either_. “The only things that have been found to be effective against Prentiss so far are fire extinguishers and fire itself, in the case of Timothy Hodge.”

Martin huffed in amusement. “Vulnerable to _fire_ and _not fire._ Try explaining that to someone on their first day on the job.”

“Indeed. I’ll talk to Elias about getting that added to the handbook.”

“Mhm. Too bad nobody actually reads the handbook.”

_“Martin.”_

By the time Jon had neatly sorted all the relevant files into a folder and made notes to append recent events to Hodge's statement, Tim had arrived and was fussing over Sasha as intently as Jon had only ever seen Martin fuss. The three of them sat on the couch, which was only a little strange considering Jon had spent a significant portion of his nights there in recent weeks.

“-keep getting called in on the weekends because my friends are facing supernatural terrors,” Tim was saying as Jon arrived, fidgeting with what looked to be a tube of antiseptic salve. That was good; if anything was prone to causing infections, it would probably be the hands of a distorted inhuman figure. “If nothing else, Sash, for the sake of my day off, _please_ don’t get killed by spooky worm people. Or, like, the human version of Gumby, or whatever that guy was. Honestly, you’d think it’s not that hard to stay away from monsters with how many people think we’re crack jobs.” He turned and pointed accusingly at Martin, who looked rather as though he thought Tim was about to frame him for murder. “That goes for you too. No more near-death experiences, understood? Even on weekdays.”

Martin nodded emphatically and, from the doorway, Jon said, “I’ll second that motion. I’ve found that near-death experiences are a real setback in the workplace.”

Without missing a beat, Tim pointed at him too. “First off, you wouldn’t have a job if people weren’t out there having near-death supernatural experiences, and second off, you’re not allowed to have any more sinister encounters either. I’m forbidding it.”

“Thank you, Tim. I’ll take that into account.”

“We’d still have all the fake statements,” Sasha mused. Jon itched to protest the implication of _real_ statements but thought better of it; he may have been an academic with credibility to uphold, but there were limits to what he could reasonably deny.

“We’d best concern ourselves with the more... believable ones for now,” he conceded. “Sasha, you said this… _Michael_ mentioned us all by name. Do you have any idea why that might be?”

Sasha’s face turned grim. “None.”

“Right.” Jon ran a hand harshly through his unbrushed hair; it caught on a tangle and yanked sharply at his scalp. He winced. “I can’t say I like that. But I suppose for now we should concentrate our defensive efforts on the supernatural entity that _has_ actively tried to kill us.”

“Michael wanted to help, right?” Martin piped up. “He can’t be all bad, can he? Maybe he even has an agenda against Prentiss like we do!”

Tightly, Jon said, “Personally, I’m not at a point where I believe accepting help from creatures of unknown origin and affiliation would be worth the risk. Even if we could reliably find it, there’s no way of knowing whether its offer of help was sincere. Trust is… not a luxury we can currently afford. I’m sorry, Martin,” he added as Martin’s hopeful smile drooped.

They were all very quiet for a moment, the dull weight of melancholy dread settling over the room like a thick blanket. When Sasha finally spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically small. “What do we do now?”

Jon sighed. “I’ll be speaking with Elias about installing a carbon dioxide-based fire alarm system in the archives,” he said wearily. That conversation was bound to be an uphill battle after how much Elias had dug his heels in about a camera system. “Meanwhile, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do, outside of keeping our guards up.”

“That means no more midnight rendezvous in graveyards, Sasha,” Tim said pointedly. His mouth was set into too deep a frown to properly inject any humor into the words, so they just hung in the air heavily, the barest skeleton of a joke.

Wistfully, Sasha said, “What will I do with my Friday nights,” and Tim flashed her a grateful, if strained, smile.

“Listen, you can always come to my place, if it’ll stop you meeting people like Knifehands Mike,” he said a bit less hollowly. Jon didn’t miss the way he leaned slightly into Sasha’s side as if in thanks. “We can even play _Scrabble,_ if you like. That’s how serious I am about this. In exchange for your life, I’ll play the worst game of all time with you.”

“I like Scrabble,” Jon murmured absently, mostly to himself, and there was a flurry of motion as three heads on the couch perked up to look at him.

“Of _course_ you do,” Tim said, something adjacent to glee blossoming on his face. “No wonder you picked Sasha for this job. You share the same nerd brain.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just upset because he can never beat me.”

Tim made an indignant noise, latching onto the new subject like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. “Lies. Lies and slander. I beat you that one time, remember? By a _wide_ margin, I might add.”

“Because you play made-up words,” Sasha scoffed, more animated than Jon had seen her since her return. “I just didn’t have the heart to correct you after you tried to convince me point stealing was a thing.”

“I resent that!” Tim leaned forward, clearly picking up steam, and Jon sidled up to the end of the couch where Martin was watching the proceedings in awe as Tim launched into a full, obviously overblown tirade.

“Good lord,” Jon said conspiratorially, pitching his voice low enough to be subtle but still cut through Tim’s increasingly enthusiastic protests. “And you all wonder why I dislike revealing personal information.”

Martin made a sound that was more than half cough but was probably intended to be a laugh and shifted slightly to face Jon, grinning hesitantly. “Personal information? Because your friends know you like a board game now?”

Jon perched cautiously on the arm of the couch and gestured to Tim and Sasha. “Even that is spiraling out of control. Imagine if they knew something more substantial.”

“I don’t think this is out of control,” Martin said thoughtfully. “Sometimes you just need something harmless to take your mind off things, you know?”

“Harmless.” Jon eyed Tim, passionately gesticulating and saying something about increased point values as Sasha giggled. “Yes, I suppose.” When he looked back at Martin, he was already looking back with a soft kind of amusement. “Rather reminds me of all those card games we played, when you put it that way.”

Martin’s expression grew wistful. “Yeah, it does.”

“Jon, Jon,” Sasha called from Martin’s other side, short of breath and failing to hide a smile. “Would you _please_ explain to this man that there’s no such thing as a quadruple point space?”

“There could be if you would just accept the genius that is _Extreme Scrabble,_ ” Tim protested, leaning almost completely over Sasha to look at Jon.

“She’s right, you know,” Jon informed him solemnly, and as the far side of the couch descended into chaos again something registered retroactively with him. _Your friends,_ Martin had called them. It certainly wasn’t the first time someone had referred to them that way, though he usually defaulted to _associates_ or occasionally _companions._ It was, however, the first time _friends_ felt like more than a juvenile misrepresentation of his coworkers. Yes, he thought. Friends had pointless arguments draped over each other on the sofa. Friends bandaged each other’s wounds and then soothed the ache with laughter. There was truth to that word, and Jon was nothing if not an avid pursuer of the truth.

He was pulled out of these considerations by an especially loud shout of protest from Sasha, and when he focused back in on the scene at hand, there was a nervous, smug smile creeping across Martin’s face.

“Just wait until I tell them you snore,” he said, and Jon scoffed in protest.

“I’ve never snored in my life,” he asserted, and Martin’s smile grew brilliant.

It was quite easy, actually, to smile back. It was almost enough to make Jon wonder why he hadn’t been doing it all along.

* * *

There was a certain heavy, muffled stillness that was inherent to large aging buildings stuffed full of knowledge and old books. Not twenty-four hours after Sasha had been escorted home by Tim, that quiet was disturbed once again by a resounding clanging in the halls of the archives. It took only a handful of seconds for Martin to arrive again, wielding his corkscrew; this time, though, Jon did not bother retrieving a kitchen knife to aim at the sound.

This was because the disturbance had nothing to do with supernatural intruders and everything to do with Jon losing his grip on a heavy box he had been lugging down to his office and subsequently spilling the contents all over the hallway.

“Ah,” he said sheepishly, as Martin practically skidded onto the scene. “Uh, not to worry, Martin. Just a minor mishap here.”

“I, uh, I can see that.” Reluctantly, Martin lowered the corkscrew. “What happened? I thought you were-” he chuckled ruefully. “Well. I thought you were Prentiss, or Sasha’s Michael, I guess. Can you believe we have a list of supernatural suspects to choose from now?”

Jon grimaced. “I preferred when the only horror we had to face was an inordinate amount of paperwork, thank you.” He stooped to start scooping the detritus back into the box, and Martin instantly lowered himself as well.

“What are these?” Martin asked, picking up a long metal rod. “Kind of a departure from your, uh, usual box of statements, isn’t it?” He blanched. “God, they’re not cursed, are they? Please tell me they’re not cursed.”

Jon couldn’t help a startled laugh. “I certainly hope not,” he said. “I believe I mentioned to you that I would be sorting out more permanent accommodations for myself in the Institute. Sasha’s… _encounter_ finally prompted me to bring in another cot.”

“Oh!” Martin fumbled the pole a bit and placed it gingerly in the box. “Some- some assembly required, it seems.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, amused. “A bit, yes.”

“D’you need any help?” The words came out all in a rush, and when Jon looked up he found Martin watching him with an odd intensity, face burning and determined earnestness in his eyes.

It was true that setting up the last cot had been a bit of a challenge, and an unpleasant one at that. Haltingly, he said, “Oh, I’m… sure you have better things to do with your night.”

The immediacy with which Martin shook his head was almost comical. “Haven’t had anything better to do for a few weeks now,” he said. “I’ve tried to, to write, a bit, you know, but it’s all been rubbish anyway. I’ll be glad for the distraction.” He seemed to retract a bit toward the end, like his eagerness had finally caught up with him. Meekly, he added, “If you like, that is. Don’t know if you, uh, planned to spend this evening alone.”

“Well,” Jon said, taken aback by Martin’s sheer enthusiasm. “In that case, I… suppose I’m only sorry I didn’t bring this in sooner, if you’re in such great need of something to do.”

“If you’re saying that getting you a proper place to sleep is long overdue, I definitely agree.”

“The couch was fine,” Jon retorted, almost instinctually, and his back twinged like it was trying to send him a message. “There is something to be said for surfaces that are meant to be slept on, though,” he admitted.

Martin laughed and dropped the last of the scattered parts into the box. “So I’ve heard.” They stood, and Jon reached down for the box, but Martin was already lifting it and shrugging a shoulder in the direction of Jon’s office. “Really, though,” he went on as he maneuvered the box through the door. “I’ve slept on that couch, Jon. We both know that for anyone with a, a human spine, it’s _not_ good.”

Jon grumbled something halfhearted under his breath but broke off when Martin fixed him with a pointed look. “I appreciate your help,” he said instead. “If I’m honest, I was dreading the assembly portion of this endeavor a bit.”

“Oh, of course!” Martin smiled broadly and sat on the floor next to the box, beginning to extract pieces as though the function of each item was within the realm of human understanding. “I actually rather like setting things up like this, you know? There’s something satisfying about seeing all the pieces laid out before you and making them come out as one finished product.”

“Yes, that’s all very nice in theory.” Jon joined Martin on the floor, joints aching with the motion. Perhaps a proper bed _was_ overdue, though he would certainly not be admitting that out loud. “I always find this kind of assembly more frustrating than anything, though. All the pieces look the same, and there’s no proper instruction manual for any of it.”

Martin laughed lightly, fixated on the neat array of pieces he was gradually lining up on the ground. “Not a fan of IKEA then, I take it.”

“The food’s alright,” Jon said, making a valiant effort to contribute to Martin’s organization efforts and likely dismantling the entire system in the process. He made a face. “The furniture’s not.”

“They give you proper instructions, though, don’t they?” Martin asked. He rummaged through the box, expelling a few leftover screws, and set it aside with a frown. “Unlike whoever manufactured this thing, apparently. Did you see any papers or anything lying around? They can’t mean for us to fly blind here.”

Jon swept his hands across the floor around him as though this would summon the instructions into existence. “I… no. That’s inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient’s one word for it,” Martin said, though he sounded mildly put out at most. He checked the obviously empty box one more time and set it aside. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same kind of cot as the one in document storage, would it?”

Jon shrugged. “More or less the same, I think.”

Martin gave a cheerful smile. “Well, that’s alright, then. We can just copy that one near as we can and it’ll all work out.”

When Jon replied, “Your optimism never ceases to amaze me,” he wished his tone didn’t automatically come out as clinically dry and flat as it was when he read a statement. There was a bit of color rising in Martin’s cheeks, though, so maybe the sentiment had come across.

“Yeah, well.” Martin was still looking intently at the array of screws and metal rods, periodically picking one up and inspecting it, but now Jon got the impression it was less a matter of concentration than a way to avoid Jon’s eyes. “That’s the way to get things done, isn’t it? You need to be hopeful if you’re gonna see things through.” His eyes flicked up to Jon’s just for an instant before he looked back down. “That’s, uh. That’s how I see it, at least.”

Jon laughed lightly, not in amusement but in some kind of wonder. “That’s admirable,” he said, and then he was the one focusing intently on the jumbled parts of his cot. He nearly didn’t recognize himself; it had been years since he’d spoken with anyone candidly enough that words escaped him so freely. Martin’s eyes were a brand on the back of his head.

After a long pause, Martin finally said, slightly strangled, “How- how long ago did you set up the last cot?”

Jon let out a long breath, and a strange sort of tension rushed out with the air. Maybe he had been holding his breath; he hadn’t noticed. “A few months, at least,” he said after a moment of consideration. “I bought it not long after I was appointed Head Archivist.” He frowned deeply at the disjointed metal pieces. “Took me hours back then.”

“Oh, Jon,” Martin said, largely sympathetic but with the undeniable undertone of a laugh in his voice. “How on Earth did you manage to move into your flat, if furniture gives you so much trouble?”

There was one metal rod that looked slightly more like a leg than the others. He picked it up and twisted a screw into the hole at the top. “That was a long time ago,” he said slowly. He could remember the day with perfect clarity if he focused on it. There had been a good deal of laughter and swearing and pizza gone cold on the countertop, and it had been one of the last days he had really spent time with Georgie. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the memory of sitting on his box-cluttered kitchen floor, exiled from the construction area after nearly putting his eye out with a screwdriver. Softly, he added, “I had a friend back then.”

He didn’t have to look up to know what Martin’s expression looked like; the tentative smile, faintly tinged with sadness, was audible and familiar. “And you have one now.”

Jon did meet Martin’s eyes then. He was unsurprised at the depth of sincerity he found there. “Yes,” he said, and believed it. “I do.” He was almost reminded of the early days of his acquaintance with Georgie, in an odd sense. She and Martin were, in most ways, entirely dissimilar, and yet the feeling of their company occupied the same space in his mind.

“Tell me about them?” Martin asked, like he was afraid the question might cause Jon to shatter. He twisted an errant screw between two fingers. “Your friend?”

“Georgie.” Her name felt familiar on his lips, and he smiled. “You would have liked her, I think.”

Martin set the two pieces he had been putting together aside entirely and leaned back on his hands, turning all his attention on Jon with a shy, encouraging grin. “Yeah?”

The full force of Martin’s undivided attention was heavy, like a weighted blanket, and Jon squirmed under it slightly even as it warmed him. He twisted around a bit of metal in his hands to alleviate some of the pressure and caught himself smiling sentimentally as he said, “Yeah. Tim and Sasha too. They’re the same kind of people, I think.”

“She sounds lovely,” Martin said, and Jon laughed.

“Lovely, yes.” Georgie would never have let him live that down. She would also have latched onto Martin for that statement alone and never let him go. “She was also an absolute menace.”

“Oh?” One of Martin’s eyebrows ticked upwards. He looked absolutely enraptured by what was, by all accounts, a rather mundane story; his eyes were wide and bright and deep brown in the low light, and his expression was settled into a faint smile, like he was just on the verge of a proper grin and waiting for a cue.

“Oh, yes,” Jon said gravely, because this dull story was suddenly feeling rather important, and he was oddly inclined to keep Martin’s attention on him, warm and heavy as it was. He didn’t bother to wonder why.

It occurred to him distantly that maybe Georgie wasn’t the only one who might be prone to latching onto Martin. It was only logical, he supposed. There was so much brightness radiating off of him; he couldn’t fault a moth for flocking to the flame.

So he told Martin about Georgie, about the eye-opening and chaotic years they had spent at university together, about the games she beat him at more often than not and the ones she refused to play with him on principle, about the feeling of cluelessly wandering around London for the first time after years in a secluded seaside town and about the first person to call him a friend and really mean it. In return, Martin spoke of his own early, aimless misadventures in the city, stumbled around the subject of his time in uni but made up for his reluctance with enthusiasm, and instead described in detail the woods near the house where he had grown up.

It did take several hours, in the end, to get the cot properly set up, and by the time it would bear his weight and resembled the original cot well enough to call the job done, Jon felt oddly like he was glowing, like he had swallowed the golden seed of something and it had bloomed into a lightbulb inside his ribcage.

Such were the side effects, he reasoned, lying later in the dark and glowing from the inside out still, of being a moth and flying too close to a flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading!! Now for some slightly bad news - I really, really hate to say this, but I won't be posting an update next week. My classes have started up again, everything's a bit chaotic, and as I'm behind my writing schedule right now anyway, I think it's for the best if I take a week off to readjust. I'll definitely be back the week after next (September 10th), and hopefully I'll be able to maintain my current schedule after that, but that's something I'll determine after this break. I promise it'll be worth the wait - we're about to get to some stuff I've been planning since nearly the beginning!! Thank you so much for sticking with me for this long, for your patience and understanding, and just for how lovely you've all been. I really don't know what I did to deserve such amazing readers. <3
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: minor blood/injury, use of "it" as a personal pronoun (for Michael/the Distortion)


	13. Scientific Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon spends some time with his friends and has... let's call it an eye-opening realization. Lowercase E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the events in this chapter have been in the works for literal months. I've never been so nervous to post a chapter. Enjoy!! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

The coarse scraping sound of a towel on the floor was usually a signal for Jon to look up and see Martin bearing a cheerful smile and a cup of tea.

These days, it was more shocking to hear a knock on his office door than for his assistants to simply enter (Martin had, at some point, taped a small piece of paper to the door reading _No knocking please!_ as though Jon were an aquarium fish prone to startling when people tapped on the glass, and he had made some pointed comment to Martin about it but never bothered to take it down). There was a rather good unspoken system in place where whoever was coming in would crack the door, listen to see if Jon was recording, and then come in and announce themselves if the tape recorder wasn’t whirring.

Loath as he was to admit it, Jon was grateful that there was no more knocking. It was a fact that Martin, who was just about the only person to regularly enter his office, understood better than anyone; frustratingly enough, Jon still jumped and a rush of adrenaline pounded through his system whenever there was a knock on the door, but Martin hadn’t slipped up once since the initial incident and, moreover, never seemed to make a fuss over Jon’s strange shortcoming.

All this was to say that when Jon heard the door opening the Friday after Sasha’s encounter, he automatically began shuffling aside papers and documents to make room for a mug of tea. This course of action was instantly derailed when instead of Martin, Tim practically exploded into the room and said, “Look alive, boss! You’re coming out with us tonight.”

Jon froze with half an expectant smile on his face and a lone file clutched in what was rapidly becoming a death grip. Slowly, he said, “I… appreciate the sentiment, Tim, but I had better stay in.” He smoothed out the piece of paper where he had crumpled it slightly and gestured toward it as evidence. “Lots to do, you know.”

“Nope!” Cheerfully, Tim snatched up the paper Jon had indicated and gave it a cursory glance. “Doctor’s orders, I’m afraid. You have a very serious case of _need to get out of this room_. Besides, this file is basically closed.” He gave Jon a look that was probably meant to be pleading. “And we’re _celebrating.”_

“Celebrating?” Jon narrowed his eyes, performing some mental calculations. “It’s not someone’s birthday, is it?”

“Would it help convince you if I told you it was mine?”

Jon sighed. “Hardly. You’d have mentioned it well in advance, I’m sure.”

“Right you are.” Tim was undeterred. “Okay, it’s no one’s birthday, but it _is_ Sasha’s first day back, and we could all use a night out.”

“I doubt a night out would have the same… _restorative_ qualities for me as it does for you.”

“Jon.” Tim braced a hand on the back of Jon’s chair and looked at him with great sincerity. “Okay. Was that time I took you out for drinks when we were in research ill-advised and a recipe for a hangover? Yes. Do I _regret_ any derogatory comments I may or may not have made about ghost hunting and/or the esteemed founder of this noble institution? Absolutely.”

Jon pressed fingertips to his temples and muttered, mostly to himself, “Christ, I had almost forgotten about that.”

“ _But,_ ” Tim continued, with unwavering conviction, “I’ve learned from my mistakes! And just because we’re going _out_ doesn’t mean we’re going for a drink, you know.”

If Jon had been wary before, he was openly suspicious now. “If you think you can drag me into anything even _adjacent_ to dancing-”

Tim held up his hands. “I know my limits. Even though I would pay real, actual money to go dancing with you. It’ll just be you, me, Sasha, and Martin, and we’re just going to pop down to this nice little pub, have a bite to eat, a _very_ reasonable amount to drink, and we’ll have you back in this very room by ten.” He waggled his eyebrows in a motion rather at odds with his rational tone. “What do you say?”

“I was rather under the impression this was a mandatory excursion.”

“Oh, it is,” Tim said quickly. “Mandatory in the sense that as our boss, you’re legally required to keep our morale up, especially in these trying times.” He pouted. “You wouldn’t want spirits to drop around here, would you? I’ll be moping around the halls like the ghost of someone’s spurned lover. Martin will cry into his tea.”

Jon could only attribute the genuine frown he found himself fighting off to Tim's acting abilities. More than anything, he wanted to sink down onto the floor, possibly hide under his desk, and wait this whole idea out – nights out, historically, didn’t much agree with his constitution. But he was a professional, so instead he gave Tim a look that he hoped conveyed the supreme depths of his agony and said, “Your negotiation skills are really wasted here, you know. You might have a properly successful career in politics.”

“Ha!” Tim drummed an excited rhythm on Jon’s chair. “That’s a yes, right? Wait, don’t answer that! Your answer is legally binding, see you tonight, bye!”

And as quickly as he had arrived, Tim was gone, without so much as a glance backward as he shut the door behind him. Just as well; the sight of Jon with his arm outstretched in a futile attempt to stop him would probably have been more embarrassing than anything.

“This is childish,” Jon said several hours later, squeezed into a small corner booth between Sasha and Martin and picking at a plate of chips that had long since gone cold.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” Tim replied levelly. He made a show of squinting one eye shut, took careful aim, and flicked his salt packet far too hard to land between the goalposts of Sasha’s fingers. Instead, the packet hit Jon square in the cheek, and he gave Tim an unamused look. There was an odd sound from beside him, and Jon turned to see Martin very obviously stifling a laugh. He glared at him too for good measure. It was a testament to the sheer amount of time they had spent together in recent weeks (and probably a bad sign for their professional working relationship) that Martin just went right on laughing despite the scowl.

“Should’ve brought the cards,” Martin said, humor plain in his voice. “You’d be less at risk of flying condiments with a good old-fashioned game of Go Fish.”

“Salt’s not a condiment,” Jon said on reflex. “But yes, that would have been preferable.”

“Any meal with Tim puts you at risk for flying condiments,” Sasha said, and dodged the next salt packet Tim deliberately threw at her. “See? You’re right, though, he might be less dangerous if you gave him some cards to hold.”

Solemnly, Martin nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“Have you two still got that card tournament running, by the way?” Tim asked, having paused his salt bombardment for the moment. He was still fiddling with a piece of ammunition, which Jon eyed nervously.

“I suppose so,” he said, glancing at Martin for confirmation. “Though if I’m honest, I’ve quite lost track of the score.”

Martin hummed thoughtfully. “You’re something like six points ahead, I think. I remember a good deal of gloating the other night.”

Tim grinned broadly, and Martin gave him a look that could not have more clearly meant _shut it._ Rather a disproportionate reaction given the subject at hand; idly, Jon wondered what that might have been about. “That’s right,” he said. A recent late night had found them both in the break room at some horrible hour, and rather than pretend sleep was an option they had played enough rounds that Jon had finally taken the lead. “I remember now.”

Sasha stole a chip from Jon’s plate and eyed him and Martin contemplatively as she chewed. “What’s it like living in the Institute, anyway? I mean, you’ve obviously been doing this for a while, Jon-” he stared daggers at her, to no effect- “but it must be odd living where you work, yeah? Just a few rooms away from all the cursed stuff in Artefact Storage and all?”

“It’s alright,” Jon said, at the same time as Martin said, “Not great, honestly.” They exchanged a look; Martin disbelieving, Jon stony-faced.

“I mean,” Martin went on, throwing Jon one more skeptical glance, “I can’t go ho- back to my flat, I’m constantly scared I’m about to be killed by a woman made of worms, I have an exact mental index of what’s in the first aid kit, and I have my breakfasts in the break room.” His voice took on a properly sarcastic edge as he leveled a pointed look at Jon. “Other than that, yeah, it’s _alright._ Out of curiosity, Jon, how much have you been sleeping?”

The mood at the table had become rather dour. Jon frowned. “Alright, you’ve made your point.”

Martin’s voice softened a bit, seemingly in an attempt to smooth out the ragged edges of tension threatening to emerge. “Well. At least the company’s good.”

“Oh.” Jon huffed out half a laugh. “If you say so.”

“Been spending time with the resident ghosts, have you?” Tim quipped.

Martin had gone a bit pink about the cheeks. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“That’s the only reasonable explanation, really,” Jon said dryly. “I know perfectly well I’m far from a pleasant person to share living quarters with.”

He had just enough time to register Martin’s face creasing into a frown before Tim, with typical exuberance, exclaimed, “Is this really happening? Jonathan Sims, local skeptic, believes in ghosts? Sasha, pinch me.”

“’Course.” She reached over, and Tim yelped. “Not so hard, you madwoman.”

Sasha shrugged, the picture of innocence. Martin, meanwhile, was turning to face Jon more fully, his expression contorting into that half-frown Jon had come to recognize as his impending sincerity face. “I don’t think you’re unpleasant to live with,” he said, voice level even as a swell of red steadily crept over his cheeks. “Not- not at all.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, momentarily sure that any sounds he tried to produce would be wholly incomprehensible. “I have several previous flatmates who would argue otherwise,” he said after a moment. “But, uh… thank you. I’m glad that I’m not adding to the general unpleasantness of your living situation, at least.”

“As if you’re not living in the exact same situation, Jon,” Sasha said, not unkindly.

Jon waved a dismissive hand, but Martin, abruptly unsteady, cut him off. “No, she’s right, I- I hope I’ve been okay to, uh, share a space with too. If I’m not, you can, you can tell me, you know!”

“What?” Jon frowned. “No, no, you’re quite alright, Martin.” When he glanced across the table, Tim was watching him raptly. Jon gave him a strange look and continued, “A good deal better than some other flatmates I’ve had, in fact. You make much better tea than I do, and, well, I’ve certainly never lived with someone who would be willing to defend the place against untold horrors, armed with nothing more than a corkscrew.”

Martin was now giving off the distinct impression of being quite badly sunburned. “Thanks,” he said, voice gone slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat and added, marginally more clearly, “I’m- I’m obviously not glad you had to leave your flat, you know, of course not, but. Uh. I- it is nice not to have to do all this alone.” He made the shakiest attempt at a smile Jon had ever seen.

“Likewise,” Jon said, vaguely perplexed but nodding.

He couldn’t quite work out what was making Tim grin like a child on Christmas morning, but that was standard for Tim, really. The man was a walking packet of infectious enthusiasm. Almost certainly nothing worth devoting too much thought to.

* * *

When Jon cracked his office door the following Tuesday, Martin was already in the hallway.

“Martin?” he said. “A word?”

Martin’s eyes flicked nervously to Jon’s. “If this is about the microwave, I’m, uh, taking care of it. Sorry.”

“The-” Jon shook his head. “No, it’s- dare I ask what happened to the microwave?”

“Oh! Ha, it’s nothing, really. Not, uh, not to worry,” Martin said, doing a truly remarkable impersonation of a deer in the headlights. “Bit of a, uh, sauce situation in there at the moment, you know how it is, you forget to put a lid on one bowl and suddenly…” He trailed off and laughed nervously, hands twisting at the hem of his jumper. “Anyway. You, uh, you wanted a word?”

Jon nodded, deciding to set the alleged sauce situation aside for the moment. As it was, he couldn’t help a cautious glance through the break room door; no damage was immediately evident, so hopefully it was at least self-contained. “About the McKenzie file,” he said, waving Martin into his office and beginning to sift through the files on his desk as Martin pulled the door shut. “Case… 0032408, I believe.”

Martin came to brace a hand on the desk across from him, scanning the document Jon had placed atop the mess. “I haven’t met a single other person who uses the actual case numbers, much less memorizes them,” he said mildly. He pushed up his glasses slightly and pursed his lips in thought. “Except maybe Sasha. But, uh, yeah, I remember the case. Not much to be gained from follow-up, I’m afraid, if that’s what you’re after.”

Jon frowned. “No?”

Martin shook his head. “I got in touch with Mr. McKenzie’s son – uh, Marcus, I think his name was – but he didn’t want to talk to me. Got rather sharp about it, actually. Said he’d ‘already made a statement’ and wasn’t interested in any further contact with the Institute.” Martin curled his fingers in air quotes here, and as much as Jon normally detested air quotes, he couldn’t find it in himself to be more than mildly put off.

“Christ,” he muttered, taking the McKenzie file back and adding it to the haphazard pile of papers he was accumulating. “That’s just perfect. Another mystery file to dig up in this mess of an archive.”

Martin made a wordless, sympathetic noise. “Not getting any easier to organize, is it?”

“Not even _remotely,”_ Jon griped. “I swear Gertrude’s primary objective was to make a system that’s impossible to navigate.”

“She was Head Archivist for so long,” Martin said wonderingly. “It’s hard to believe she still left the place in such a state.”

Jon sank into his chair, scowling. “I’m starting to think she did it deliberately to spite me. Or whoever succeeded her, at any rate.” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, jabbing his fingers into the pressure points too hard to do any good.

“Are you… doing alright?” Martin asked cautiously. “Just, with everything, you know. Not just the state of the archives.”

He peered up at Martin’s concerned face, soft-edged and hazy like an old photograph without his glasses. Unwilling to let the harsh lines of reality in just yet, he folded them up and set them aside before speaking. “As alright as I can be, yes. Considering Gertrude’s filing system, or lack thereof, rather, is conspiring with Mr. McKenzie’s statement about an unnatural presence on the other side of his door to be as perfectly and _specifically_ unpleasant to me as possible.”

With some effort, Jon could make out Martin wincing. In fact, it occurred to him that he was probably squinting rather grotesquely, and he frowned at himself and put his glasses back on. Martin’s face resolved itself into distinct lines of worry and upset. He always had been too empathetic for his own good.

“Well.” Jon managed half a smile, or a mimicry of one that felt at least partly stoic. “Anyway. Thank you for your input, Martin. I suppose there’s not much we can do as far as follow-up goes, then.”

Martin blinked, as though readjusting to the scene at hand. A touch mournfully still, he said, “Yeah. I suppose not. Let us know if you need anything, though, yeah? Not, not just me. Tim and Sasha too.”

“I will.” Martin’s expression was skeptical at best, and Jon sighed. “I _will,_ ” he said begrudgingly. “Thank you, Martin.”

As Martin drew back from the desk, his fingertips trailed over the wood lightly, like he wanted to anchor himself to it for as long as possible. “’Course,” he said when the connection was finally broken. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Jon’s tenuous grasp on the concept of time aside, it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes later when the door opened again and Martin reappeared, this time bearing a cup of tea.

“Sorry,” he said, placing the mug on Jon’s desk and immediately retreating back to the door. It was a strange contrast to the way he had lingered before, though the reluctance was a constant. “Don’t mind me, just thought you could use a cuppa.” He smiled faintly, already half out the door, his stance somehow an apology in itself.

Jon wrapped his hands around the mug and smiled faintly at the heat permeating his overworked joints. “Thank you, Martin. I certainly could.”

Some of the hesitation melted from Martin’s face at that, and Jon was glad to see it go. Then Martin nodded, drummed his fingers once on the doorframe, and was gone.

Smiles suited Martin much better than apologies, Jon thought absently as he leaned back in his chair for a moment to sip at his tea – scalding hot and not too sweet. It was nice that Martin wasn’t quite as timid these days; after all, he had a very nice smile.

Jon set his mug aside, careful not to spill on his documents, and picked up the statement he had been perusing before. His eyes skimmed over the first few lines several times, seeing the words but hardly absorbing their meaning. His mind was caught on something, like a record stumbling over a scratch. He frowned, shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, and refocused on the paper.

_Concerning her alleged encounter with a deceased relative,_ he read. _Concerning her alleged encounter with a deceased relative._ There was a note scrawled in the margins in Martin’s looping handwriting, small enough to be nearly illegible. He would almost certainly need to ask Martin to decipher it for him later. The thought made him roll his eyes, but the accompanying surge of annoyance was weak. _Concerning her alleged encounter with a deceased relative. Statement begins-_

Jon froze.

Oh.

Martin had a nice smile, did he?

As if on autopilot, Jon continued scanning the statement even as his mind went deathly silent. Fragments of the words on the page echoed dully through his head, meaningless and deafening. _My favorite family member as a child was always my grandfather,_ he read. Stark black words on white paper, roaring against the waves of static in his mind. _I loved him very much. I loved him very much. I loved him very much._

Unbidden, the image of Martin’s gentle smile at the door returned to him, and with it came a rush of warmth.

_Oh,_ Jon thought, just on the verge of incoherence. _Oh no._

This was _highly_ inappropriate.

With perfectly steady hands and a faint sense of detachment, he set the statement down and stared at it blankly for a moment. Certainly he was wrong about this. _Certainly_ he wasn’t entertaining pleasant thoughts of Martin smiling, of Martin walking with him to his flat and talking him down from nightmares and wrapping steady arms around his shoulders.

He was slightly starved for human connection, that was all. Jon knew this. He was experiencing closeness for the first time in a very long time. It was only natural, pure biology, to crave more of that connection. To want the best for that person and, if he was honest, to want to hold them. Nothing unusual or even remotely noteworthy about it. It was not at all unlike what he’d had with Georgie, he reasoned, then dropped his head to his desk with a dull _thunk._

It was probably not the wisest course of action to start drawing comparisons to his _ex_.

When he managed to pick his head back up, he realized that he had spilled some of the tea after all, or perhaps it had splashed out of the mug with the impact of his head. There was a murky brown ring on the otherwise pristine document. A slightly hysterical laugh burst out of him at the sight, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Then, fingers still firm over his lips, he breathed in deeply through his nose. On the exhale, he removed his hand from his mouth and forced himself to relax his locked frame.

So Martin had certain attractive qualities. That much was an objective fact. He could accept that. But there were pleasant things about Tim and Sasha too, so why was he fixating on Martin? They were _friends,_ plain and simple, and even that was a fairly recent realization. Jon couldn’t even fathom wanting… what did he even want? There was a thought there that his mind shied away from like oil from water.

In a sudden burst of resolve, Jon scrabbled for a sheet of blank paper and a pen. This could be simply broken down, analyzed and translated into something that made sense. At the top of the page, Jon scrawled _Martin Blackwood_ in a slightly more cramped script than usual and began to write.

_Makes good tea_ was, inexplicably, the first item on his list. Then came _reliable_ (when had that happened?) followed by _caring; considerate_. _Pleasant company._ It took a minute of silent agonizing before Jon could bring himself to write _gives nice hugs._ With a staunch determination, he avoided letting his eyes linger on those slightly-too-vulnerable words, as though they were his own personal ink-smeared Medusa and examining them directly would leave him petrified. _Courageous,_ he wrote instead of allowing himself to dwell there. _Bright._

Finally, he wrote, slowly, _Spending time with him makes me feel good._ It was the first point to merit a full sentence.

Jon let out a long breath and stared at the list in silence, clutching his pen a bit too tightly for comfort. His feelings did seem a bit more manageable written out. There weren’t any definite conclusions to be drawn from the words on the page, but it wasn’t _nothing._ With a bit of academic observation, it should be within the realm of Jon’s abilities to tell whether or not what he was experiencing was – his mind choked and stuttered at the word, unfamiliar and rusty as it was, but he forced himself to think it – attraction. Romance.

_Christ,_ but this was going to be a complicated, messy affair. Jon rested his head in his hands and was achingly grateful that Martin, at least, was unaware of his plight.

* * *

Jon spent the four days following his initial epiphany conducting extremely scientific research. He was spending plenty of time in Martin’s presence these days, so gathering data was no challenge at all.

The first day was the worst, before he had a chance to become acclimated to the new and jarring immediacy of his emotions.

Sitting alone in his office in front of his damning list of evidence, ink still drying on the page, he resolved to adopt a professional detachment in all matters concerning Martin so as not to allow bias into his observations. Then, with an overwhelming feeling of hypocrisy, he dug out his old cigarette lighter, burned the list (there were prying eyes everywhere in the Institute, and he couldn’t be too careful), swept the ashes into the bin, walked out into the break room, and promptly dropped his empty mug when Martin brushed past him to reach a cabinet.

From there, naturally, there was a great deal of fussing and frantic apologizing from Martin, and Jon just stood there motionless at the epicenter of a halo of porcelain shards and silently cursed himself.

Ultimately, he decided to disregard any observations from that day.

The second day was marginally more successful.

“Are you feeling alright?” Martin asked on their way to lunch. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“What? Oh, yes, just fine,” Jon said a touch brusquely (overcompensation was very much one of his strengths), and surreptitiously brushed a hand against his cheek to test for excessive warmth.

Martin hummed, unconvinced. “Well, we’ve got Ibuprofen and things in the med kit, if you want some of that when we get back.”

Decisively, Jon said, “That won’t be necessary. Just a bit of fresh air will do me good.”

“Can’t hurt, that’s for sure. We can walk around that park again today if you like?”

“That would be nice,” he said, and Martin’s shoulder bumped against his as they walked, and Jon dutifully made a note of the resultant swell of warmth in his chest upon his return to the archives.

There was a certain process to this sort of research. After all, as early as primary school, children were taught the scientific method and learned to format their hypotheses in an ‘if, then’ structure in preparation for any scientific dilemmas they might face. Therefore, on the third day, Jon armed himself with a mental list of romance identifiers (he had stopped just short of typing “symptoms of romance” into his computer earlier before changing his search to something less reminiscent of disease) and constructed a list of theories. _A hypothesis must be testable,_ his teachers had always told him. _The nature of a scientific hypothesis is that it can be disproved, but never definitively proved. Only disproved over and over again._

_If I am experiencing romantic attraction to Martin,_ Jon thought, _then it is likely that I will want to hold his hand. If I find him attractive, then he will make my heart race and my breath catch._

_If this is what is happening, then I will need to decide on a suitable course of action._

There was a reason most scientists conducted their experiment in controlled environments. On the walk back to the Institute that day, Jon had only just begun to contemplate Martin’s hand where it swung loosely at his side when a deafening clap of thunder interrupted his thoughts. He and Martin had just enough time to exchange apprehensive looks before the skies tore open and sent forth a deluge of rain.

Then they were running, and Jon had no more time to wonder what Martin’s hand would feel like in his, because he abruptly knew it was warm and softer and larger than his and that it was tugging him insistently down the street. They reached the Institute in record time, and Martin pulled his hand away to stop Jon in his tracks and said breathlessly, “Worms, worms. Watch out.”

They crept around the worms writhing on the wet pavement, icy water sluicing down Jon’s collar, and when the doors were finally shut behind them Jon took one look at Martin and just burst out laughing. The sound was half leftover adrenaline and half genuine hilarity, because the two of them looked positively drowned and Jon could only imagine the scolding his grandmother would have given him, and then Martin started laughing too and Jon didn’t stand a chance.

They absolutely drenched the entryway, of course, and the rain had soaked through every layer of clothes Jon had on, but he was warmed to the bone and nearly dizzy with laughter, and his heart was thudding a frantic rhythm, and if he was going to be technical about it there was a good amount of evidence to be had anyway, scientific plans be damned.

On the fourth day, Jon finally caved.

Proper research, true scientific investigation, required third-party input, didn’t it? That was to say, Jon felt both shatteringly close to reaching a conclusion and starkly terrified of what that conclusion might mean, and he desperately needed to hear anyone’s opinion that wasn’t his own.

He briefly considered lighting a cigarette. Then he considered moving cities and changing his name and starting a new life where no one knew him. Against his better judgment, Jon did neither of these things. Instead, he pulled out his phone and didn’t allow himself time to reconsider before dialing.

Sasha answered on the second ring. _“Jon? What’s wrong?”_

Jon’s voice stuck in his throat.

_“Jon?”_ There was a rustling noise, and Sasha said warily, _“Are you there?”_

“I don’t know what to do,” Jon admitted, a touch hoarsely.

A note of panic entered Sasha’s tone. _“What’s going on? A- are you okay? Is it Martin?”_

Jon shook his head before remembering that Sasha couldn’t see him. “No, nothing like that,” he said, though his voice was probably more than unsteady enough to cast doubt on this claim. “It’s- I’m alright, I’m not in danger, I just…” He sighed. “I need… some advice. Please.”

_“Oh.”_ There was silence for a long moment. _“Oh, Jon, please tell me this isn’t about work. You gave me a heart attack, and it’s nearly midnight.”_

Jon raised his eyebrows. “Midnight? Already? That’s- well. I’m sorry, Sasha. If it’s any consolation, this… isn’t about work.”

_“No?”_ He could practically hear the grin spread across her face. _“Alright then, let’s hear it. If it can distract you from statements while you’re literally living at the archives, it must be good.”_

“That, ah, depends entirely on your definition of _good,_ I suppose,” Jon said with some difficulty. He paced to the door and gingerly touched the handle, checking for at least the fourth time that it was locked. “I have… I have a hypothetical situation to propose to you.”

_“Go on, then.”_

“Hypothetically,” he said, face contorting into a grimace to rival most gargoyles, “If I… if someone were to… _Christ.”_ He squeezed his eyes shut and said, all in a rush, “I’m afraid I’m developing feelings for someone.”

Sasha gasped. _”Jon! That’s lovely!”_ She paused, then tacked on, _“Not much of a hypothetical, though, if I’m honest.”_

Jon chuckled lightly, some of the tension in his frame loosening. “No, I suppose not.”

_“So what can I help with?”_

“Right.” He swallowed thickly and paused his pacing to lean against a wall. The concrete was cool and grounding against his skin. _Statement of Jonathan Sims,_ he thought sardonically. _Regarding his supreme misfortune._ “I’m trying to determine my feelings for this person,” he said, probing his way carefully through the sentence. “It’s… unusual, to say the least, for me to feel this sort of… inclination. I thought perhaps an outside perspective might be informative.”

_“That makes sense,”_ Sasha said calmly, and Jon was struck by a fierce spike of appreciation for her levelheadedness. She was the perfect inverse to the panicked clamoring in his head. _“Why don’t you tell me about them? Maybe talking about it will help you understand.”_

“Okay. Yes.” Jon breathed deeply and slid down the wall to the floor, as if the words would come more easily if he curled up and hid from the world. He called his list to mind and said, “He’s kind. Always kind. I… haven’t been particularly deserving of his kindness in the past, but he gives it without hesitation. It’s rather-” he broke off, suddenly abashed. Softly enough that Sasha must have strained to hear it, he mumbled, “It’s a very nice feeling.”

_“Lovely,”_ Sasha said, equally gently. _“You deserve that. What else?”_

An odd sound emitted from Jon’s throat. He coughed to cover it up. “I suppose… he makes me smile,” he said, with a feeling like he was clawing each word from his gut. For all the relief talking to Sasha brought, it felt like he may as well have been exposing his jugular to a wild beast.

Sasha laughed a bit, but there was no malice to it. _“It’s okay, Jon, I won’t judge you for smiling once in a while. I promise.”_

Jon flushed. Perhaps his discomfort had been more obvious than he thought. “He makes me feel safe,” he blurted, because his soft innards were already well exposed and, well – in for a penny, in for a pound.

There was a faint indecipherable noise on the other end of the line, and Sasha was quiet for a moment. _“That’s wonderful,”_ she said finally, and Jon could have sworn he detected a tinge of emotion in her voice.

Jon shrunk in on himself a bit, hugging his knees to his chest. His grip on the phone was almost painfully tight.

Luckily, Sasha didn’t wait for him to speak; he wasn’t sure he could have been held accountable for his words at that moment. _“Listen,”_ she said. _“I can’t tell you what you feel, but… yeah. It sounds like you might like him a bit. And that’s okay.”_

“It- it’s not, really,” Jon said stiffly. This was more on his comfort level; contradictions came to him as naturally as breathing.

Sasha hummed but didn’t disagree, which Jon found oddly comforting. He wasn’t sure he could have dealt with empty platitudes at that moment. _“So you’re not going to do anything about this?”_

Jon scoffed. “Certainly not.”

_“Why’s that, then? I mean, obviously you don’t need to date everyone you fancy, but… I don’t know, Jon. It sounds like he might be good for you.”_

At some point in these proceedings Jon’s hand had found its way into his hair, and he was now tugging almost painfully at his scalp. “There are circumstances,” he said around a wince. The words left a bad taste in his mouth. “Even if I… I couldn’t.”

Sasha sighed, loudly and deeply. _“I don’t want to pry,”_ she said, in the tone of someone who was very much about to pry. _“But it sounds almost like you’re describing someone I know, aren’t you?”_

Jon couldn’t help the strangled noise that escaped him then. “ _Sasha-”_

_“It’s alright, Jon,”_ she interrupted. _“I won’t tell.”_

“Please,” he said, ragged and desperate. “I can’t, Sasha, I- you _know_ I can’t.”

_“Take a breath,”_ she instructed firmly, and Jon complied thoughtlessly. _“Good. It’s alright, Jon, really. I promise I’m not going to tell anyone. Not even Tim – although you know he’d be thrilled. And completely insufferable.”_

Jon’s head was spinning slightly, the whirlwind of emotions dizzying and painfully intense. “Yes, he would,” he agreed faintly.

They sat in companionable quiet for a while as Jon listened to the distant sound of Sasha breathing on the other end of the line, letting the sound anchor him slightly. Now that he had spoken it out loud, something tangled inside him had loosened almost imperceptibly. It was a bit easier to breathe in the aftermath.

When Sasha eventually broke the silence, Jon jumped, even though her tone was like that of someone trying to calm a wild animal. _“While we’re talking feelings,”_ she said, and Jon cringed at the phrase. _“Is it… is it just the boss thing keeping you from acting on this? Because I’m not trying to force you into anything, I’m really not, but-”_

“It’s not,” Jon said, less out of a desire to share his most intimate fears than out of concern for what Sasha might have said next had he not interrupted her. Nevertheless, he found himself talking anyway, words spilling out of him to be swallowed by the dark. “That’s… obviously it’s a factor, yes. This is – you must understand, Sasha, that this is extremely inappropriate.”

Sasha made a noncommittal noise, and Jon gave a resigned sigh. He admitted, “It’s been quite a long time since my last…” The word ‘relationship’ felt strangely fraught, and rather than say it he coughed self-consciously. “Well. My point is that I… frankly, I don’t know if I could even remember how to go about feeling that way about someone.” The words left him feeling like he had been set on fire from the inside out, lungs scorched and smoke crawling up into his mouth. When he gritted his teeth against the silence that followed, it almost surprised him that he didn’t taste ash.

_“Oh, Jon,”_ Sasha said. Her voice had gone impossibly soft. _“If you want to figure that out again, who could be better than Martin to learn with?”_

There wasn’t any response Jon could give to that, so he shut his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and whispered, “Good night, Sasha. Thank you.”

_“Please try to remember that you deserve nice things,”_ she replied gently.

Jon hung up and stared into the distance for a very long time.

* * *

Here were some facts about Jonathan Sims, scientifically observable and immutable.

He liked to read nonfiction and always finished the books he started, even if he grew bored halfway through. He despised coffee but drank it anyway on mornings where the fatigue was especially bad. He was stubborn to a fault. He was twenty-eight years old and usually assumed to be at least thirty-five. He was scared most of the time, but especially of spiders. He could operate on six hours of sleep or less if necessary.

He was maybe a little bit in love with Martin Blackwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know folks I really don't know!! This is definitely not my favorite chapter but it's also easily the most emotionally significant one to me so far, so I just don't know!! I'm in writing limbo!! Also I'm writing Jon as aro-spec here because a) I'm aro-spec and I just think it would be neat and b) I really do get those vibes from him in canon, I hope that interpretation speaks to you as much as it does to me!!   
> Finally I will be sticking to a chapter every two weeks for now - hopefully if I do that a few times I'll build enough of a backlog to return to one a week, but currently this is just a thousand times more manageable. Thank you all so much for how lovely you've been, it means the world to me :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: None?? Please let me know if I missed anything, but other than that enjoy this fluff!


	14. Assorted Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as he can tell, Martin's greatest secret has come to light. This leaves him in a bit of a state, Sasha navigating a veritable minefield of pining and confidential information, and Jon, of course, slightly clueless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With every passing chapter this fic gets more self-indulgent. Enjoy! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

“Because I am a wonderful friend,” Sasha announced without preamble as she entered the archives, “I stopped by a café on the way here, grabbed you a Danish. No need to thank me.”

“Oh! Thank you,” Martin said reflexively, and Sasha laughed at him.

“You’re very welcome. I got one for Jon too, because I’m convinced that man doesn’t eat unless forced and I’m worried one Monday I’ll come back to find he’s wasted away at his desk.” She extended a paper bag in his direction. “You want to be the one to bring him his weekend sustenance?”

Martin’s cringe must have looked more obvious than it felt, because Sasha’s eyebrows instantly rose. “What is it?”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. No point hiding things from Sasha. “He’s found me out,” he said morosely, slightly muffled.

There was a scrape and a creak as Sasha dragged a chair over and eased herself into it. “Who, Jon? What’s he found out?” She inhaled sharply and said, hushed, “Not your CV?”

“My-” Martin looked up so quickly he almost got whiplash. He couldn’t keep a note of betrayal out of his voice. “Tim _told_ you about that?”

“No!” Abject horror was plain on Sasha’s face. “No, no, of course not! I…” She grimaced. “I keep telling Jon we need better digital security, don’t I? If you know your way around a computer, it’s really not that hard to- anyway. I haven’t told anyone, of course. I didn’t even mean to tell you I knew.” The paper bag in her hand was being slowly crumpled in such a way made Martin spare a distant thought for the pastry inside.

He took a steadying breath. It did little to slow his racing heart. “That’s… okay. I, obviously I trust you, Sasha. But I _can’t_ have him find out. That would be…” He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Sasha said sincerely. “If it helps, I would take back learning that in a heartbeat if I could.”

With a truly valiant attempt at a cheerful smile, Martin said, “It’s alright. Really. I just won’t tell anyone you hacked into our official database and we’ll call it even.”

She grinned guiltily. “It’s hardly _hacking_ if it takes less than fifteen minutes to get in. Practically public domain.”

“Right. Call it what you want, as long as I’m not complicit in your crimes.”

“Crimes,” Sasha scoffed. “Sure. So, uh, back to what you were saying? What did Jon find out?”

“Oh, god,” Martin groaned. “Right. I, I’m pretty sure he figured out that I-” He swallowed. “You know,” he said lowly. All the blood in his body seemed to have relocated to his face. “How I… feel. About him.”

Sasha blinked, and an extremely odd expression came over her. “ _Did_ he. What… what makes you think that? Did he say something?”

Martin scrubbed a hand over his face. Eleven in the morning, and already he wanted nothing more than to lock himself in document storage and sleep for a while. “No. He’s just been acting… I don’t know. Weird. He keeps giving me these weird looks, like he knows something I don’t. It’s just been awkward. For _days._ I don’t know what else it could be.”

“Huh.” Sasha sounded a bit like she had something caught in her throat, and her face had gone so blank it must have been deliberate. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said, each word measured and slow. “And if it does… it doesn’t really sound like he… _minds?”_

“Sasha, that’s mad,” Martin managed. He had to speak over a cacophony of discrete voices in his head which had suddenly all started screaming in unison. At least one of them sounded quite a lot like Tim.

She gave him a probing look. “Do you want him to have figured it out?”

“God, you’re just as bad as Tim,” he said desperately, and a smile cracked through her careful impassiveness.

“Do you?”

_“No,”_ Martin said emphatically, and covered his face again. “Yes? I, I don’t know. I-” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and considered how much of his soul he was willing to bare on this fine Saturday morning. “Of course I do,” he said finally, muffled by his palms. “But only in a world where it’s the same for him, you know?”

“Oh, Martin,” Sasha said softly. She laid a hand on one of his arms and tugged it away from his face. When she had his hand in an outstretched position, she tucked a crumpled paper bag into it. “Why don’t you go take that to him, yeah? Maybe having a talk will clear things up.”

He gave her a pained look, but accepted the bag and stood. He’d nearly made it to the door when another set of footsteps sounded from the hallway, and behind him he heard Sasha say, “Oh! Hi! Here to give a statement?”

Martin turned to see an unfamiliar woman hovering in the doorway with the poorly disguised reluctance inherent to first-time visitors to the archives. She nodded sharply.

_Sharp_ was actually an appropriate descriptor for nearly everything about this woman. She didn’t actually have especially pointy features other than her flinty expression and possibly her angular, vividly dyed haircut, but something about her still gave Martin the impression he’d be better off not handing her any sharp objects. “Yeah,” she said, like she was daring them to object. “You work here?”

Sasha nodded, and Martin chimed in, “You’ll be looking for Jon, probably?”

Her eyes snapped to him with frightening intensity. “If that’s who takes the statements around here.”

“That’ll be Jon,” Sasha said brightly, evidently unaffected. “Martin was just on his way to him. He can take you there.”

_Thanks, Sasha,_ Martin thought grimly even as he mustered his friendliest smile and said, “Yup, not a problem! Right this way.”

The woman just nodded again and crossed the room to Martin, eyeing him expectantly. He started through the door and threw Sasha one last pointed glance over his shoulder.

“Uh, I’m Martin, by the way,” he said to quell the thick silence as they walked.

“Yeah. Your friend said.” Martin grimaced at that, and for the first time the woman looked a bit awkward. Maybe apologetic, but then Martin was an optimist. “Melanie King,” she said shortly. “Ghost Hunt UK. Do you have a plumbing problem here or something?”

“What? Oh.” Truthfully, Martin had gotten so used to all the towels under the doors that he hardly noticed them anymore. To an outsider, leaks would certainly have been a probable culprit. “No, I, ah, I wish. More of an… infestation, unfortunately.”

“ _Oh_.” Melanie sounded about as disgusted as Martin felt. “Is that what all the worms outside are about?”

Tamping down the urge to run his hands over his arms, Martin nodded. Despite his best efforts, the pastry bag crinkled slightly as his hand clenched. “Yeah, sorry about that. They… they didn’t bite you, did they?”

A note of concern crept into Melanie’s voice. “Uh, no? Are they dangerous?”

“They’re… probably fine.” Martin cringed. It felt wrong to say, but there was no reason to cause undue panic. The worms hadn’t so much as attempted to crawl up the Institute steps in the few weeks since they’d appeared.

“ _Probably?”_

“P- probably, yeah. Uh, here we are!” Martin eyed Jon’s door with some trepidation. “Give me just a minute, yeah? I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Alright. Thanks,” Melanie said, eyeing the towel stuffed under Jon’s door with renewed interest and more than a little disgust. Martin couldn’t blame her.

He took a moment to steel himself, listening first for Jon’s recording voice, then slid the door open. It was one work-related interaction. What was the worst that could happen? Jon wouldn’t fire him, probably. Even if he _had_ discovered one of Martin’s deepest and most closely guarded embarrassing secrets. It would be fine.

“Morning, Jon!” he said, maybe a bit too cheerfully. “I’ve got- that is, Sasha brought you something from the bakery. And there’s someone here to give a statement.” He placed the bag gingerly on the edge of the desk, where it sat sad and more than a bit crushed as Jon leveled a critical look at it. Then he turned his eyes to Martin.

“Thank you, Martin,” he said. Even behind his glasses, his eyes burned with intensity. Oh god, he _definitely_ knew. “That’s… lovely. Who is the statement from?”

Martin blinked rapidly, caught entirely off guard. It was a silly, small thing, but he was quite certain he’d never heard Jon say the word _lovely_ before. Jon didn’t think things were lovely. He thought they were _nice enough, I suppose,_ or, more frequently, _fine, thank you._ Martin was starting to wish he did, though. He had always thought Jon’s voice was, well – lovely. Sonorous. It wrapped around the syllables in a way he would very much like to hear repeated.

“Uh, Melanie King,” he said, quickly enough that he hopefully didn’t come across quite as gut-wrenchingly lovesick as he felt. “She does that ghost hunting show, she said?” Details. Details were good. A sign of competence.

Jon made an extremely distasteful face. “Ghost hunting,” he said derisively. “ _Really.”_

Martin flinched, throwing an anxious glance at the cracked door. “Jon, she’s-”

“Alright. I suppose I have time to take a statement. Even one about _ghost hunting._ ”

Martin nodded and resisted the overwhelming urge to just sink into the ground and never reemerge. There was no way Melanie hadn’t heard that.

Sure enough, when he opened the door, Melanie’s expression had gone stormy. She wordlessly shouldered her way past Martin into Jon’s office, and as the door shut behind her, he realized her mood before had been downright pleasant, because there was no mistaking the blatant ire in her voice as she demanded, “Got a problem with ghost hunting, then?”

Martin heaved a sigh and went to brew a cup of tea. If he stayed within earshot, maybe he could at least call an ambulance when Jon was eviscerated.

* * *

There had to be hundreds of women named Georgie in London.

It was a common enough name. There was _no way_ the Georgie Barker in Melanie’s statement, who he had to conduct a single standard-procedure phone call with, was the same Georgie Jon had been friends with for years in uni and possibly dated.

That knowledge didn’t stop Martin from staring blankly at the phone for upwards of ten minutes like touching it would burn him.

“Wanna trade?” Tim said from his desk. “I can offer you a wonderful and _exceptionally_ corrupted video tape of spooky footage in exchange for phone duty.”

Martin laughed, startled out of his daze. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t even like horror movies. If I start watching stuff that might be real, I won’t sleep for weeks.”

“Fair enough.” Tim shrugged. “You good over there, though? Any particular reason you’re trying to melt the phone with your mind?”

“Not trying to melt it, don’t worry.” Martin smiled sheepishly. “Just not really in the mood to make calls right now.”

Tim nodded sagely. “Calls are the worst. The day Jon starts letting us text people instead will be the best day of my life.”

“You… you _could_ email them.”

“Oh, please. What am I, eighty?” Grinning broadly, Tim put on a pair of headphones. Slightly too loudly, he asserted, “This is the future. The Institute just won’t accept it because Elias is actually, like, two hundred years old.” He tapped on his keyboard with a flourish. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ghost movie to watch.”

Martin rolled his eyes fondly and made a broad _get on with it_ gesture. Tim responded with a ghostly wiggle of his fingers before turning to his screen.

“Right,” Martin said under his breath, and grabbed the phone before he had time to think about it too much. Dialing the number was practically muscle memory, and all too soon, the phone was up to his ear and ringing.

_“Hello?”_ answered the woman who was definitely not Jon’s Georgie. _“Who is this?”_

“Hi!” Martin said pleasantly, and silently thanked every deity he could think of that he’d done enough of these calls that the standard script spilled out automatically. “Miss Barker, right? This is Martin Blackwood, calling from the Magnus Institute about a statement Melanie King left. Do you have a minute to answer some questions?”

There was silence for a long moment, and Martin was briefly sure he’d been hung up on. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Then Georgie said, _“Melanie King, you said? Is she alright?”_

Martin wasn’t sure if his sigh was one of relief or disappointment that the call wasn’t over. “Oh, yes, perfectly fine,” he assured her. “Her statement mentioned you, is all. Standard follow-up procedure, you know.”

_“Sure.”_ She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but very few people on these calls ever did. _“Yeah, I guess I can answer some questions.”_

“Great! Thank you so much.” He fumbled for a pen. “We’ll just be a minute. First, can you confirm that you’re Georgina Barker, of the _What the Ghost?_ podcast?”

_“Georgie,”_ she corrected. There was a small measure of amusement in her voice as she said, _“If I’d known I was going to be talking to a fan, I would have offered you an autograph or something.”_

Martin chuckled. “Oh, I, uh, haven’t actually listened to it. Uh, sorry. Sounds really interesting though! Maybe I’ll give it a try.” _Christ._ It was a good thing this definitely wasn’t Jon’s Georgie, because he was making a right mess of it. He _was_ pretty sure Jon had mentioned something about a podcast, though. How many local women named Georgie had podcasts?

_“Oh, that’s fine,”_ Georgie said with marginally less enthusiasm. _“Just joking. What else did you need to know?”_

“Right.” Martin cleared his throat, eyes flicking to his scribbled list of questions. “Uh, you recommended a woman named Sarah Baldwin to Melanie King for her show?”

_“Yeah, I did. Had her on a couple… two, I think,_ What the Ghost? _episodes. Kind of odd, but nice enough, you know?”_

“Great,” Martin said, pen scratching. “Have you… known her long?”

There was a sound like a long contemplative exhale directly into the phone. Martin held it away from his ear a bit. At least she seemed to be taking him seriously; that was more than could be said for the average follow-up. _“Not long, no. Met her at a networking thing, haven’t really kept in touch.”_

“Perfect. And do you know anything else about Sarah Baldwin? Uh, just about anything, really – location, current employment…”

_“No? Not at all, we haven’t talked since the last time she was on the podcast. Uh, I thought this was about Melanie?”_

“It is!” Martin said quickly. “Sarah Baldwin was… involved in Melanie’s experience. Pretty, uh, pretty central to it, actually. That’s why.”

_“Central? Huh. That’s… odd. She didn’t seem the type. I don’t know anything else about her, though.”_

Martin nodded to himself. “Alright. That should, uh…” On impulse, he glanced over at Tim. He was evidently engrossed in the camera footage, headphones still firmly on his ears. “Actually, I, I had one more question, if that’s okay?” _God._ He was going to get himself fired.

_“Yeah?”_

“You, uh…” He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You wouldn’t happen to know Jonathan Sims, would you?”

There was complete silence on the other end of the line.

More than a little frantically, Martin added, “It’s- he’s not involved in the case or anything, I just- Your name sounded really familiar. And I wondered if you were the same Georgie he mentioned. _Sorry._ I’ll let you go.”

Georgie… laughed? That couldn’t be right.

_“Jonathan Sims,”_ she said wonderingly. _“That’s… wow. What a coincidence. Yeah, I know him.”_

“Oh!” Martin’s thundering heart slowed into slightly safer territory. “Really! I- I was sure that was a fluke.”

_“No, no! I mean, how many Jonathan Sims can there be?”_

Martin loosed a self-conscious laugh. “I was thinking the exact same thing about Georgie Barkers just a few minutes ago.”

She laughed again, openly and genuinely this time. She had a very charming laugh, and Martin was abruptly confronted with a mental image of Jon sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office, looking at Martin contemplatively and musing that he and Georgie would get along. His heart lurched in response.

_“Kind of a perpetually grumpy bloke? On the shorter side, looks like a library chewed him up and spit him out?”_

For reasons he could genuinely not have identified or explained, Martin went bright red. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

_“Unbelievable. How is he?”_

“Uh, well enough, I think. Seems… it can be hard to tell, you know? He, uh, works too hard, of course. Could definitely use a break, and a lot more sleep. But he doesn’t seem unhappy? He’s happy sometimes, I think. I- I hope.” He frowned to himself and considered his phrasing delicately. “We’ve had a few… _challenges_ at work recently, but I think he’s coping with them really well, considering.”

_“That’s good. Not the challenges, the... coping.”_ Georgie’s voice was almost wistful. _“I’m glad he’s got someone to help deal with that, too. He always was too stubborn for his own good.”_

“Oh.” Martin’s warm cheeks had flared into a full-scale bonfire. He swallowed. “Yeah. That’s Jon.”

_“I’ll have to message him again,”_ she mused. _“Been too long.”_

A slightly panicked laugh erupted from Martin. “As long as he doesn’t think it’s too weird I’ve been in touch with you about him, I suppose. Oh god, this is a massive invasion of privacy, isn’t it? I’m so sorry.”

_“What?”_ Georgie sounded equal parts entertained and confused. _“No, don’t be sorry. Martin, was it? I’m really glad you called, Martin.”_

He made a small choked sound. “Uh. Thanks? I, I am too. Yeah. Oh – thank _you_ for your help with the case, of course! That was really helpful.”

_“Not a problem.”_ She paused, then said, _“I should be off, actually. Got a new episode to record.”_

“Right, right, of course.” Martin resisted the urge to press his face into his hands. “Have a good day, then!”

_“Thanks. You too. And, Martin? Would you do me one favor?”_

He blinked. “Uh, sure? What is it?”

Georgie’s smile was audible. _“Make the first move.”_

Before Martin could process that bizarre request, the line went dead.

When he spent the following several minutes staring at the receiver in dead silence again, Tim gave him a poorly disguised concerned glance but said nothing.

* * *

Martin was getting a bit worried.

This was, of course, far from unusual for him, but his worries these days were outlandish and weighty, and if he let them settle in his head too long they went sour and turned his stomach.

Specifically, he was worried that the reason Jon was nowhere to be found in the Institute was because Prentiss had taken him. It didn’t matter, really, whether Jon had left of his own accord again without thinking or Prentiss had somehow come inside and dragged him silently from his office into the rapidly darkening evening – the result was the same in either scenario and involved quite an unpleasant mental image that Martin wasn’t really willing to examine.

He paced in front of Jon’s office for an eternity, phone in hand, silently debating whether or not to run another circuit of the library and the winding hallways leading to document storage. There wasn’t any plausible reason for Jon to be down there, but nothing seemed to need a plausible reason anymore anyway, and running down there would at least give him something to do other than worrying the hem of his sweater into disrepair and hovering his thumb over the _call_ icon on his phone.

He was just on the verge of giving in and dialing Sasha’s number when there was a distant rustling, and he looked up to see Jon maneuvering several plastic bags into the hallway. He stared, momentarily unsure if he was now suffering from bizarre stress-induced hallucinations. It would have seemed almost fitting, on top of everything else. 

Jon grumbled lowly to himself as he grappled with the bags, and that more than anything was enough to make Martin release a shuddering breath and say, “What are you doing?”

Jon startled and met Martin’s eyes with something like guilt. “Ah. Martin. I was, uh… shopping?”

Martin’s eyebrows were doing their level best to creep all the way into his hairline of their own accord. “Um. I can see that? I, I was more wondering _why.”_

“Yes. Right.” Jon looked down at the bags as if they would give him the answer. “I- I thought I would make dinner. Frankly, I’m sick of leftovers, and I can only imagine you are too. It’s early still, I assume you haven’t eaten yet. Do you like curry?”

When the only response he received was a stunned stare, Jon’s eyes widened slightly in realization. “Oh! I, I did let Sasha know I would be out, if that’s what you’re on about. I meant it when I told you I wouldn’t be leaving without warning again, you know.” Blushes didn’t show up very well on Jon’s skin, but his cheeks darkened slightly nonetheless. Martin felt his face heating to mirror it.

“I’ll be honest, I was just about ready to head out on another misguided rescue mission,” he admitted, humor not quite reaching his voice. “But – sorry – did you say _curry?_ No offense, Jon, but I’ve never seen you eat anything that wasn’t ready-made, much less _cook.”_

Jon frowned. “I cook,” he said indignantly. Martin gave him an incredulous look, and he appended, “Sometimes. It helps not to be under constant threat from paranormal forces, for a start.”

Martin doubted Jon had done much in the way of home cooking before Prentiss either, given the ridiculous hours he kept at the office, but if he was about to bear witness to the cooking skills of Jonathan Sims, who was he to argue? He shrugged, fighting the hint of a smile that was threatening to emerge now that his anxiety had subsided. “Fair enough. Not like I’ve done much cooking myself recently.”

Jon snorted. “I know,” he said, moving past Martin into the break room. “I’ve been present for nearly every one of your meals since Prentiss. And you mine, I suppose. You never answered my question.”

“What?”

“Do you like curry?”

Martin trailed behind him, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on his pant leg as he walked. “Um. Yeah?”

“Good.” Jon set his bags on the counter and began extracting the contents. In short order, the countertop was lined neatly with rice, coconut milk, curry powder, and a handful of other items, which Jon stood proudly surveying. He rubbed his hands together. “Now,” he said, and picked up the rice. “First thing to do will be-” He turned with purpose, then visibly deflated, face falling. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Martin echoed, feeling rather adrift.

Jon clutched the bag of rice in both hands like a prayer, looking forlorn. “There’s no stove.”

There was absolutely no helping the startled laugh that burst out of Martin. “No, there isn’t,” he agreed, scarcely containing his amusement. “Never has been, as far as I know. Did you… forget?” He barely got the words out before he had to clamp down on another surge of laughter that threatened to overwhelm him.

The look on Jon’s face suggested he was trying very hard to seem stern, but it was a losing battle. His expression was twisted and tight around the lips, and Martin was unreasonably charmed. “I didn’t _forget,”_ Jon hedged. “There may have been some, ah… minor miscalculations in my dinner plans.”

Martin raised a hand to his mouth in a mostly futile attempt to smother his laughter and, with a feeling like floating, watched Jon's eyes track the movement. “I’ll say,” he said, ignoring the electric shock the sight of Jon’s begrudging smile delivered directly to his heart. “Is that a no on curry for dinner, then? I know you just said you’re sick of takeout, but we do have what’s left of lunch in the fridge somewhere.”

Jon’s vaguely pleased expression melted into a grimace. “I suppose.”

A cursory glance inside the fridge revealed that there were indeed boxes of takeout left over, but the bald disappointment in Jon’s voice gave Martin pause. Shifting aside the boxes didn’t reveal anything else edible, and he frowned. “That’s all we’ve got, unless you can conjure a stove from somewhere,” he said apologetically over his shoulder.

“Well, certainly not in the archives. That’s a fire hazard if I’ve ever heard of one.”

Martin hid his too-fond smile behind the door of the fridge. If Jon was going to start making _jokes_ now, he really was done for.

“Although,” Jon said, and went quiet. When Martin turned to look at him, there was a bit of color in his cheeks and he was considering Martin with a sort of resolute determination.

“Although?” Martin prompted, feeling suddenly as unsteady as if he were walking on ice, a single misstep enough to plunge him into icy depths.

Jon refused to break eye contact despite the glaring look of discomfort on his face. _Probably because he knows how you feel about him,_ a traitorous part of Martin’s brain reminded him, and he shoved it aside. “I do have a stove at my flat,” Jon said haltingly, and the annoying part of Martin’s brain went unnervingly still along with the rest of him. “If you like, we can make dinner there. Provided you don’t mind a bit of a walk.”

“Oh,” Martin said intelligently. For a moment he just stood there gaping, reeling at the implications, with a feeling like a swarm of bees had come to life in his chest. “You know what?” He turned to shut the fridge, cutting off the waves of cold that had been prickling at his back and leaving only blazing, singing warmth. “I, I think Tim may have gotten to those leftovers after all. Curry sounds _wonderful.”_

There was a knowing gleam in Jon’s eye, but instead of acknowledging Martin’s obvious lie, he just smiled.

“You know, I got a message from Georgie today. You remember Georgie,” Jon said apropos of nothing as they walked down the street. It was sunset, and the dim golden glow chased out all the fears that had coursed through Martin’s system last time he had walked this route in favor of an entirely new assortment of nerves.

“Yeah?” A new flare of nerves surged in his throat at the reminder of Georgie and her odd message, but he forced it down, affecting a casual smile. He reached out a hand in Jon’s direction. “Let me take one of those, come on.”

Their hands brushed as Jon, grumbling a vague token protest, handed over one of the plastic bags of ingredients, and Martin nearly jumped out of his skin. Never mind that he had touched Jon before; it was entirely different in the context of walking to Jon’s _home,_ where they were going to cook _dinner_ together. _Christ._

He waited for Jon to continue, but there was no reply.

“Jon?”

“What? Oh, yes.” Jon blinked rapidly, as though waking up from a dream. “Yes, it was very sudden. The last time we spoke properly must have been years ago, and now she’s eager to reconnect. Isn’t that strange?”

“Sounds nice.” Martin was suddenly very glad of the bag in his hand, since it gave him something to fidget with nervously. “I- um, this is odd, but… I may have had something to do with that? She- I had to call her for follow-up on Melanie King’s statement, and, and I… may have mentioned your name.” He cringed, fixing his eyes firmly on the sidewalk in front of him. There was a loud crinkling noise as his hand fisted in the bag. “Sorry.”

Jon looked at Martin like he was seeing him for the very first time. “ _Well,”_ he said after a long moment, during which Martin decided that it was well and truly time for him to hand in his resignation and possibly to flee the country. “That certainly explains it. I’m not upset, Martin.”

“Oh.” The tension rushed out of Martin’s frame like a deflating balloon. “That’s… hah. I almost thought you were going to fire me.”

“What? Of course not.” Jon’s affronted tone was rather at odds with the tentative smile blooming on his face. “Actually, I’m rather pleased. I… You can probably imagine I don’t have much in the way of old friends.” He gave a rueful chuckle. “It’s nice to talk to the one I do still have.”

Something small and sad wilted in Martin’s heart. “Anyone who doesn’t want to be your friend doesn’t know what they’re missing,” he said, fiercely enough that it didn’t even occur to him to blush. He had never been one for confrontations, quite the opposite really, but if he ever encountered someone who had made Jon think it wasn’t surprising that he had few friends, they would be having words. “In fact, I’m pretty sure certain people in the archives would be keen to start a _Jonathan Sims’ friends_ club if you asked. Georgie could join.”

Jon made a small choking noise. “ _Absolutely_ not,” he said, with as much dignity as it was possible to muster while actively fighting a smile. _God,_ Martin was in love. “Georgie knows far too much about what I was like at uni to even consider introducing her to them. Not if I want the smallest shreds of my dignity to stay intact.”

Martin neatly boxed up and set aside the fact that Jon had said _them_ and not _you._ Not everything had to mean something. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and grinned at Jon teasingly. “Well, now I’m even more curious. What dark secrets are you holding onto, Jonathan Sims?”

Jon didn’t respond. Martin glanced over at him, unsure if he’d crossed some invisible line, and found Jon meeting his gaze with a look of extreme scrutiny. He gave him a wary look in return and squirmed slightly. The intensity and single-minded focus of Jon's expression suggested he was gearing up for a proper scolding, or potentially an impromptu performance review. Neither option left Martin particularly enthused.

When Jon finally spoke, Martin had just settled on a scolding as the likeliest outcome. He had been too familiar, looked too longingly, and now he was going to face the consequences. Instead, though, Jon said, as though the words would burn him if they stayed in his mouth too long, “We co-owned a cat. And I used to dye my hair.”

A tiny squeaking noise escaped Martin and he clamped his hand over his mouth, because if he spoke in that instant, no matter what he set out to say, what came out would be a love confession. “What was its name?” he managed after a drawn-out moment, still in a significantly higher pitch than usual.

It seemed to be the right thing to say. Jon relaxed a bit and said, with a hint of fond nostalgia, “His name is the Admiral. I’m sure you see why I can’t have this information become public knowledge.”

“Sure,” Martin said, just this side of giddy. His grin threatened to split his face in two. “Can’t have people knowing you like _cats._ Cats with _silly names._ God forbid. Worse than Scrabble, that is.”

“Oh, I should have known better than to think you’d take this seriously,” Jon said, but there was absolutely no bite to his words. In fact, if Martin wasn’t mistaken, he was smiling a bit. “And I’ll have you know the Admiral’s name is not silly. It’s _dignified.”_

“Right, sorry. Of course.” Martin’s cheeks were starting to ache from smiling, and it was a welcome relief when Jon averted his eyes to check a street sign. Martin took the opportunity to press a fist to his mouth, issue a silent scream, and look at Jon with undiluted affection before collecting himself and following him around a bend. They stopped outside a familiar housing complex, and he silently held out his free hand for the bag of groceries in Jon’s hand, marveling when Jon thoughtlessly handed it over as he patted down his pockets for keys.

“It’s a mess,” Jon said as he made his way inside and Martin crossed the threshold almost reverently. He had been absolutely convinced he’d never be allowed within a mile of this building again after his dreadful rescue attempt. The very hardwood beneath his feet felt hallowed. Inside, the flat was just as he remembered it, but even more disheveled; during his stay on the couch, darkness had concealed the thick coating of dust on the cluttered shelves, the assortment of cans on the counter, and the towels still strewn haphazardly across the floor. It looked, as his mother liked to say, as though a tornado had passed through.

“It’s perfect,” he said earnestly. “Anyway, it’s not like you haven’t seen my flat in a worse way.”

“Yes, but I’m willing to attribute that to Prentiss instead of you.” Jon gestured for Martin to set the bags on the counter and started to arrange the ingredients just like his aborted attempt at the Institute. Martin helped, and for a while the only sound was the crinkling of plastic and a bit of clattering as Jon broke away from the counter to locate a pot and fill it with water.

Martin had just built up the nerve to make some wisecrack about the fact that Jon seemed to own exactly two spoons when Jon crossed the room and set the pot down on the stove slightly too forcefully. Water sloshed over the side in a miniature tidal wave, but he paid it no mind as he fixed Martin with an intense look.

“Are you planning on going back to your flat?” There was an edge to his voice that Martin had never heard there before and couldn’t identify.

The joke died on Martin’s lips as he sighed, leaning his back against the counter. “I can’t stay at the Institute forever,” he said. “I guess technically I _could_ go back. I mean, either you or Elias will want me out eventually.” His stomach churned at the thought.

Jon scowled at the stove as he turned it on. Each of his motions had a certain abruptness to it, even the twisting of his wrist on the dial. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” he said, and his tone had taken on that adamantine quality that usually meant he was about to make a particularly disparaging remark about a statement. “Martin, I don’t want you to go back. I certainly won’t be evicting you from the Institute anytime soon, not with Prentiss still an active threat.”

There was no reason why that should have made Martin’s heart jump in his chest as if it was trying to break through his ribcage. Jon didn’t want him to die – it wasn’t like that was a new development. “Thanks,” he said softly, reaching a hand behind him to steady himself on the counter.

Jon reached behind Martin for the salt and shook some into the water, a frown firmly fixed on his face. He did not meet Martin’s eyes.

Slowly, gauging Jon’s reaction along the way, Martin said, “Even if Prentiss wasn’t a threat anymore… I don’t think I would go back. I don’t think I _could_. I- I’m going to stop paying my rent this month.” Jon said nothing, but some of the sharpness left his face as Martin spoke. What was left when the scowl melted almost looked like sadness. “I’ll look for a new place eventually, I think,” Martin added with a bit more conviction. “One- one with less windows.”

When Jon reached past Martin again to grab the rice, their hands passed so close to each other that an echo of heat touched Martin’s palm. There were dents around Jon’s fingers in the bag when he pulled it toward him, and he finally met Martin’s eyes with a horrible sort of raw openness. An agonizing moment stretched into infinity, and then he said, “I don’t have many windows.”

Martin couldn’t breathe. Hand gripping the counter tightly enough to hurt, he looked around the flat, processing none of what he saw, and then back at Jon. “No. You don’t.”

Something indecipherable passed over Jon’s face and he nodded slowly, as if that settled some internal debate. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the pot, which had started bubbling somewhere in the interim. “Now. The first thing is to cook the rice.”

“Right,” Martin said, reeling, and retained absolutely none of the instructions Jon proceeded to give him about how to make a proper curry. He had barely even registered it when he walked in, but Jon’s sofa bed was suddenly a glaring, vastly distracting presence just out of sight.

The curry was delicious, despite Martin’s distraction. And if Martin didn’t put up much of a fight when Jon said it was too late and too dark for them to walk back to the Institute, he could easily blame that on his last walk through the dark to Jon’s flat.

After outfitting him with a pillow and a set of sheets, Jon left for his bedroom with the assurance that he would let Sasha know where they were. This only served to make Martin wonder what on Earth that message might have looked like ( _Hello Sasha, I will be staying at my flat tonight. Martin is also here_? How in the world was she meant to interpret that?) and let out a muffled groan at the questions she would no doubt have for him in the morning.

The last thought Martin was aware of before he drifted off was that for all her teasing, Sasha was right about one thing: if Jon did know about Martin’s feelings, he really _didn’t_ seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. This is probably not a huge realization, but bear with me for a second as I get out my conspiracy theory boards and some red string.   
> Georgie came up in Melanie's statement, and she was contacted for follow-up. In season 3, she doesn't seem to know where Jon works, so I have to believe one of the assistants called her with absolutely no idea that they were talking to Jon's ex and best friend!! Imagine the potential!! Obviously, for this fic, it HAD to be Martin. Am I the only one who's just realized that? Anyway, let me have my Martin and Georgie interactions. She's so much fun to write.   
> As always, thank you so much for reading!! Your kindness fuels me. See you in two weeks!! :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: very minor mentions of worms/Prentiss, but they don't actually appear.


	15. How We Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets an old friend and does something impulsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I get to say this, but there's fanart for this fic now!!!! And it's stunning!!!!! Thank you so, so much to the incredibly talented Charlie (chalroe on tumblr) for drawing [the boys playing cards at an ungodly hour](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/post/631335691835588608/art-for-a-home-for-what-loves-you-which-i-very) and absolutely making my day - I never dreamed someone would make art for something I wrote, much less such beautiful art!!! If you, like me, enjoy melting into jonmartin-shaped puddles, please go check it out!!!
> 
> (also, if you're so inclined, listen to at least the first few verses of Stardust by New Politics if you want a vibe for the last scene of this chapter - that's where the title for this chapter is from, and I've been itching to use those lines for a fic for ages!)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! :)

Jon was rapidly discovering that he was extremely ill-suited to spying.

For one, he was garnering a fair amount of attention, which he was quite sure was the exact opposite of what spies were supposed to achieve. He couldn’t manage a single inconspicuous look at the café across the street without passersby giving him odd looks, and it wasn’t as though hiding behind a potted plant or in an adjacent building would make him any less noticeable. He didn’t have a clear line of sight, he couldn’t gauge the situation at all, and he was fairly certain staring anxiously across the street for much longer would get him in some kind of trouble.

It was also less than ideal that his target was looking right at him, eyebrows raising inquisitively and lips curling into a bemused smile.

Jon sighed, mentally crossed espionage off his list of career opportunities, and crossed the street to meet Georgie.

Her face cracked into a broad grin as he approached, and he couldn’t quite keep his own expression from mirroring hers. She looked just as he remembered, right down to the wildly curling hair and the dangling novelty earrings. “C’mere, you bastard,” she crowed, standing and outstretching her arms. Jon went to her without hesitation, and for a moment, wrapped in her arms and breathing in the same perfume she’d worn for years, he was back in uni, years younger and several traumatic experiences poorer.

“How’ve you _been?”_ she demanded, tugging him to sit across from her at the table. There was already a disposable cup sitting there, and at her nod, Jon picked it up and took a sip to find something herbal and strong inside. It tasted like every one of their late-night coffee runs.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, and his voice only wavered a little.

She sipped at her own drink and gave a contented little sigh. “You too. God, it’s been so long.”

“Too long,” Jon agreed. His smile was broad enough that managing his next sip of tea with any dignity was a bit of a challenge.

Georgie’s eyes glittered. “So long you managed to join me in the spooky jobs sector and didn’t even bother to tell me. I’m hurt, Sims. Really.”

“My job is not _spooky,”_ Jon asserted, only barely maintaining an appropriately affronted expression. God, he’d missed this. Georgie had already needled him a bit over the phone, but it was different to see her face, gleeful and smug, as she spoke. “We are _researchers._ In fact, I’ll have you know I’ve been appointed Head Archivist. None of your ghost hunting nonsense.”

“Mhm. As if you don’t listen to every episode of _What the Ghost?_ and _love it.”_

“And just how do you know that?”

Georgie barked a laugh, grinning wickedly into her cup. “Lucky guess. It’s true, though, isn’t it.”

Rather than give her the satisfaction of an obvious lie, Jon grumbled something sullen and let the fondness in his eyes speak for him.

“Yeah, I thought so.” She reached across the table to punch him lightly in the arm, and he rolled his eyes. “Okay, but setting that aside, can I just- _Head Archivist?_ Really?”

Jon’s disapproving frown wasn’t quite as hard to feign that time. “Well, you don’t need to sound so surprised about it.”

Georgie’s eyebrows rose disbelievingly. “I _am_ surprised. Jon, you don’t have a library sciences degree. Why would they hire you as an archivist?” There was a beat during which she watched Jon’s face go through what was presumably a very impressive set of acrobatics, and then she added, “Were they… um… _really_ desperate?”

He was startled into a laugh, which he quickly choked down and drowned with a gulp of tea. It had to be some kind of bad luck to laugh about this sort of thing, and bad luck was just about the last thing he needed. “You could say that, yes. The woman who previously held my position, uh… disappeared. Maybe died. There are all sorts of rumors floating around.” He was only now realizing how much he’d missed Georgie’s morbidly impressed face, usually reserved for Jon’s catalog of grotesque historical facts or the Admiral’s largest hairballs, so he tacked on, “On my first day, I was informed that she may well have died at my desk.”

_“Oh.”_ If Georgie’s rapt expression was any indication, she was about thirty seconds from requesting a permit to locate the ghost of Gertrude Robinson herself. “Yeah, that’ll do it, I guess. So you’ve got a job you’re not really qualified for-” she neatly ignored Jon’s answering protests- “ _and_ an office that’s definitely, definitely haunted. Unbelievable.” She sounded ridiculously pleased with herself. “At least it seems like you’ve got cool coworkers.”

“Assistants,” Jon corrected, itching to claw at least _some_ of his dignity back to himself. Georgie’s face twisted into what was clearly a nonverbal _oh, terribly sorry, how could I possibly,_ and Jon conceded, “But yes. They are… decent company. Even if they can be absolute menaces on occasion.”

Astonishingly, Georgie looked more pleased than teasing when she replied, “Wow. That’s pretty high praise, isn’t it? Can’t even remember how long it took me to reach the esteemed ranking of _decent company._ ”

Jon snorted. “You were always decent company. It just took me a while to admit it.”

“Aw, Jon.” She grinned. “So, what are they like? I have at least one of them to thank for getting to see you again.”

Jon nodded. “That’s Martin.” His voice came out nicely even and controlled, and he mentally congratulated himself. He had spent the past two weeks exploring the extent to which, in light of recent realizations, he could act in a normal capacity when it came to Martin. Considering that his cups of tea tasted about ten times better than usual these days and being confronted with Martin’s warm, smiling presence over lunch or some other pleasantry was a daily occurrence, he thought it was rather admirable that the worst of his slip-ups were getting a bit flustered once in a while and inviting Martin to his flat for dinner and possibly an indefinite stay. Georgie looked on expectantly, and he went on, still very levelly, “And there’s Tim and Sasha. Both excellent researchers.”

“Help you track down a lot of ghosts, do they?”

He gave her a pointed look. “Researchers. _Not_ ghost hunters. And it’s been more worms than ghosts, of late. I’ll bet that’s not something you’ve featured on _What the Ghost.”_

Georgie raised her eyebrows skeptically. “Ghost worms? Yeah, no, not so much.”

“No, no, uh… flesh worms.” He grimaced at the words as they left his mouth, a touch too reminiscent of gaping pores and slick grey skin. “They… Martin and I, we’ve had some incidents recently. Not pleasant.”

If there was one thing that evidently hadn’t changed about Georgie, it was her love of the macabre. In uni, she and Jon had had regular movie marathons, and when it was her turn to choose, she unfailingly selected films of the gruesome horror variety. This usually resulted in Jon pretending not to cringe away from the screen at every turn while Georgie watched even the most grotesque scenes without flinching, visibly fascinated or even bored. This was to say that Georgie was among the select few people who could look intrigued rather than sickened by the phrase ‘flesh worms’ and who, instead of delicately changing the subject, would lean forward with fascination and ask, “What happened?”

Jon frowned. “You probably wouldn’t even believe me.”

“You’re aware I host a show about ghosts, right?” She crossed her arms. “Try me.”

Jon’s tea was growing cold in his hands. He took a sip to steel himself, rotated the cup a few times, and said shortly, “A woman infested with carnivorous, parasitic worms pursued and trapped me and Martin in his flat for nearly two weeks. The same worms showed up at work a few weeks ago and won’t leave.” He sat back, ostensibly to watch Georgie’s reaction but also so he could drain his cup in one fluid motion, shivering in an attempt to dispel the crawling sensation creeping up his spine.

Georgie may have been the most fearless person Jon had ever encountered, but her eyes widened regardless as Jon spoke. She waited a beat after he was done, then blew out a long breath and said, “Okay. Damn. Your friend mentioned some kind of weird stuff at your work on the phone, but I didn’t think he meant _killer, stalker worms.”_ She eyed him critically. “Are you alright?”

Half a laugh escaped him. “You’re just going to accept that?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t like that you’re avoiding the question, though. _Are_ you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Jon held out his hands in front of him, as if to prove (to himself or to Georgie, he wasn’t sure) that nothing had happened. All he achieved was realizing that he was trembling just slightly, and he quickly pulled them back and tucked them into his pockets. There wasn’t really any reason for Georgie to know that he still flinched at the sound of knocks and woke with reddened skin and shallow breath more often than not.

“Martin got the worst of it, really,” he deflected. “He’s got a scar where a worm tried to get into his hand, and besides, he can’t go back to his flat now. Living in the archives, actually.”

“Wow.” It wasn’t often Georgie was visibly stunned, but Jon supposed supernatural encounters were as good a reason as any for such a thing. “There’s not- he couldn’t stay with someone?”

“Well.” Jon grimaced. So much for his resolve to remain neutral about matters concerning Martin. “Actually, I- I may have offered.”

Georgie’s eyes lit up, and Jon hastened to add, “I’ve got that sofa bed, after all. All just temporary, but if he needs a place to stay...” Jon shrugged, fending off a blush. No matter if the word _temporary_ caused something to sink in the pit of his stomach; he had seen that same look in Sasha’s eyes often enough now to know it was best quelled before it could spiral out of control.

Instead of teasing him, though, Georgie just smiled into her cup and said, “That’s really nice, Jon. He sounded lovely over the phone. I’m glad you’ve got people like that.”

Jon let out a small sigh of relief. Perhaps he hadn’t been as obvious as he feared after all. “Yes, well, it’s the least I can do. Might just be enough to stop him having to sleep with a corkscrew, at least.” He scoffed at the memory in disbelief, but the thought was accompanied by a sharp pang as he remembered Martin’s gentle inspection of the scratches on his arm, the tranquil haze that had coated the room under the edge of fear. A look of mild alarm crossed Georgie’s face at the mention of the corkscrew, but she didn’t comment.

“Anyway.” It was well past time to change tacks, probably. “What have you been doing, then? Other than becoming the most successful ghost podcaster on the market, of course.”

It worked; Georgie laughed, shaking her head at Jon’s weak attempt at humor. “Right, obviously. Uh, I might try to have Melanie – you met Melanie King, I’ve heard – might have her do a guest spot on the podcast. Oh! And I’ve moved into a new flat. Turns out the podcast business is good enough to sponsor a move out of that horrible building. You wouldn’t believe the things the ad spots make me say, though.” There was genuine pride in her voice, and it was no effort at all for Jon to give her a glowing grin. She’d complained about every imaginable thing about that building when they were together, from the landlord to the faulty pipes to the ridiculously thin walls, and a move had been long overdue even then.

“As long as the Admiral approves,” he said. The pride must have shone through in his voice if Georgie’s pleased expression was any indication.

“Oh, he couldn’t be happier. He’s got even lazier, if you can believe that. All day, just napping on the radiator. Sometimes, if he’s feeling bold, he’ll move from there onto my bed. I swear he just keeps me around for food and the occasional scratches.”

“He always did like me better,” Jon said mildly, and delighted in the exaggerated outrage that washed over Georgie.

“He does _not!”_

“I’m afraid I’ll need photographic evidence if you plan to convince me otherwise. Until then, I’m the favorite parent.”

“Oh, I’ll show you. You’ll see.” She pulled out her phone, a competitive glint in her eyes, and scrolled intently for a minute before practically shoving it in Jon’s face. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and then the blur on the screen resolved itself into the familiar, pudgy shape of a tabby curled up in the sun. An involuntary smile tugged at Jon’s lips.

“Sorry,” he said, making no effort at all to conceal his fondness. “I’ll need more than that.”

Georgie snorted. “You can come visit him, you know. I don’t live far, we could walk over there if you like.”

A surge of warmth flared in Jon’s chest, and he did his best to avoid drawing comparisons other warm feelings he'd been experiencing recently, because he was fairly certain he knew what exactly that feeling was and he wasn’t quite willing to put a name to it just yet. “I’d like that,” he said.

“Come on, then.” Georgie stood, smiling. “We might make it just in time for his daily trip from the bed to the radiator.”

He gestured for her to walk ahead of him. “Lead the way.”

She bumped her shoulder with his affectionately. “Don’t know your way around here, huh? That must be why you were sneaking around over there before.”

“Oh. Uh, no.” He coughed self-consciously. “I’ve walked this way with Martin a few times, actually. I was just, uh… Didn’t know if you would be here or not.”

Georgie laughed, not unkindly. “Well, you weren’t very subtle. You and Martin ever come here?” She gestured to the café.

Jon flushed, caught off guard. “No, we, uh- no. He makes better tea himself, actually.”

The smile Georgie gave him was just a bit too knowing for comfort, but they reached her flat quickly enough and Jon was, thankfully, thoroughly distracted by proving that he was in fact the Admiral’s favorite.

* * *

Jon stalked forward, folder clutched tightly in his hand, raised in preparation. Under his breath, he muttered, “Hold still, you… creepy… bastard.”

The spider completely ignored his threats and skittered behind the microwave.

“Damn,” Jon hissed. He set the folder aside (which was probably for the best; it was unlikely that Mr. Thorp, in the event he was still alive, would have wanted his file used as a weapon given his peculiar relationship to death) and set about tugging the microwave aside. He’d be damned if he let that thing run free in the archives, where it could easily crawl into Jon’s office or any number of filing cabinets. The space between the microwave and the wall was thick with dust and webbing, and the spider was nowhere to be seen.

“Jon?” A set of footsteps sounded behind him, and he jumped. “Jon, what are you doing?”

“Ah. Martin.” He turned, clearing his throat. “Nothing, I was just, uh… lost something. It’s nothing.”

Martin gave him a skeptical look. “What, behind the microwave?” Behind him, Tim walked in and gave them both a grin and a wave before settling at the table with a cup of coffee. Fantastic. So this was to be a spectacle, then.

“Yes,” Jon said resolutely. Just as he threw a desperate glance back as if the microwave would have an answer to give him, a flash of movement caught his eye, and he whirled in time to see the spider make a mad dash across the wall.

Martin clearly saw it too. “Jon! Tell me that’s not what you lost.” His gaze fell on the discarded folder, and a deeply betrayed expression took root. “Oh, absolutely not! Here, let me. Come _on.”_

Jon moved aside and muttered something vaguely apologetic, meeting Tim’s eye as he went. “Now you’ve done it,” Tim informed him brightly. Jon just gave him a nod and a slightly pleading look.

“Spiders are a valuable part of the ecosystem,” Martin lectured as he picked up an empty cup and advanced calmly toward it. Tim mouthed the familiar words along with him, grinning broadly behind Martin’s back. “They eat flies and all sorts of pests, and we’re better off for having them here, even in the archive.” The spider didn’t even make an attempt to move as the glass was placed over it. Jon should have known all spiders would have a personal vendetta against him. Still with a hand holding the glass in place, Martin turned and gave Jon a stern look. “Really, Jon, you know that. And this is just a lovely garden spider! Honestly. Completely harmless, perfectly friendly, and you were just going to squash it.”

Tim, throughout this monologue, was nodding sagely at Jon and sipping from a mug that Jon was sure must have contained pure liquid caffeine to account for his ridiculously alert expression.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled. He avoided Martin’s gaze. “Sorry, I know.”

He waited until Martin had carefully maneuvered the folder under the cup and gone to carry it outside before saying to Tim, “There has never, not in the history of the entire world, been such a thing as a _lovely_ spider.”

“Depends who you ask.” Tim tilted his head toward the door Martin had just left through. “Hey, what's going on, by the way? Did you two fight or something?”

“What?” Jon frowned. “I hardly think that qualified as a fight. Martin’s told me not to kill spiders before, and in stronger terms than that.”

“Not that.” Tim crossed the room to lean against the counter, looking at Jon apprehensively. “I told myself I wouldn’t get involved, but I just- there is some kind of tension here.” He waved his hands vaguely, presumably to encompass said tension where it floated in the air.

Something like ice water was slowly filtering through Jon’s veins. “Certainly not,” he said, making an effort to imbue the words with confidence. “At least, I- if I have done something to cause that, it was inadvertent.”

Tim shrugged. “It’s not a big thing, really. I just get the sense you’ve been walking on eggshells around each other, lately.”

Well. Jon could certainly think of at least one good reason why he would be treading carefully when it came to Martin. He fought to keep his face controlled, but something must have shown through, because Tim said, “I mean, he doesn’t seem mad at you. But you have been kind of hard on him in the past, you know. I thought maybe something happened.”

“No, nothing like that.” Jon shifted his weight a bit uncomfortably. He was… quite sure that the tension was his fault, but not in the way Tim seemed to think. He weighed his words carefully before speaking. “I know I’ve been… abrasive in the past, and it’s not something I’m proud of. I am trying to correct that behavior as best I can. Rest assured, I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward him.” Quite the opposite, but there was absolutely no way he would be telling Tim that. “I like Martin, I do. I’m not interested in picking fights.”

It was at that moment that Martin returned, glass empty and folder tucked securely under his arm. For a fraction of a second, he met Jon’s eye with an odd sort of cautious smile, and then the moment passed and he said, “Poor thing’s free now, no thanks to you. He’d be dead if you had your way.”

Jon grumbled something vaguely affirmative, accepted the folder when Martin handed it back to him, and retreated to his office before Tim could say whatever it was his raised eyebrows were a precursor to or Martin could blame him for the demise of another innocent arachnid. The strange look on Martin’s face remained stuck at the back of his mind for a while afterward, but Jon had always been quite good at burying his concerns in work.

* * *

He was still secluded in his office hours later, when Tim and Sasha had long gone home and the cup of tea on his desk held only dregs. The Thorp statement was, if he was completely honest, a dead end, and Martin would only scold him in that tentative, sad way if he found Jon still working at such an hour, so he began setting notes aside in neat stacks and arranged his tape recorder atop the pile.

The drawer beneath his stationary, where he kept the statements that couldn’t yet be filed away but wouldn’t fit on his desk, was filling rapidly. He had gotten an overfilled drawer stuck once before and wasn’t eager to do it again, so when stuffing Thorp’s file inside proved fruitless, Jon opened the drawer beneath it. He had to bite back a curse at the sight that greeted him.

Before Prentiss, before the second cot and this strange semi-permanent living arrangement, Jon had taken to keeping a spare set of clothes in his bottom drawer for when he spent unplanned nights in his office. They had served him well after returning from Martin’s flat, but there had been little use for the drawer since he’d started more or less living out of the duffel bag at the foot of his cot. In the subsequent whirlwind of statements and bloody nightmares and corkscrews, he had completely forgotten the last time he’d made use of the drawer, and now the incriminating contents sat untouched within.

Folded neatly in Jon’s bottom drawer, thick and soft and slightly dusty, was Martin’s borrowed jumper.

Faced with the evidence now, Jon could clearly remember wearing it at Martin’s flat. He remembered quickly exchanging it for his spare work shirt after recording their statement, fervently hoping neither Tim nor Sasha had been paying enough attention to his appearance to notice. Guiltily, he remembered retrieving the jumper on one or two particularly late nights to use as a pillow on his desk, resolving each time to find a subtle way to return it to Martin without having to explain why it had sat in his office so long. It was far, far too late to comfortably return it now.

Gingerly, as though the fabric might crumble to dust in his hands, Jon lifted the jumper from his drawer. The knit was heavy and warmed immediately under his fingers, forcibly calling to his mind how comforting the weight of it had been on his shoulders. It was a nice jumper. It was a wonder Martin hadn’t asked after it.

It had felt very, very nice to wear.

Surely Martin was asleep by this hour.

Reluctantly, with a nonsensical glance over his shoulder like Martin might have manifested in his office without a sound, Jon lifted the jumper to his face. The stubble on his cheeks caught and rasped against the wool, and he could have sworn there was a faint scent of something herbal, and he felt just a little bit out of his mind. The scent and the softness were heady and ever so slightly dizzying. Was this what attraction did to him? He couldn’t remember feeling quite so adrift with Georgie. Alarmingly, he almost liked it.

His breathing was harsh and absurdly loud in the quiet of the room as he fumbled for the hem and began to fit his arms into the sleeves. He paid it no mind, relishing the guilty rush of warmth that settled over him with the heft of the jumper. Of course, he knew what Martin’s arms felt like now, and really the experiences weren’t in any way comparable, but this was its own kind of anchoring weight. He breathed the feeling in, letting his eyes fall shut in a moment of raw self-indulgence.

Then a faint noise sounded from the hallway and he scrambled upright, eyes flying open. Jon nearly fell from his chair in his frantic attempt to wrestle himself free of the fabric. He wound up bursting with adrenaline and panting, shoving the jumper back into its drawer in a cruel mockery of its earlier neat folds, and forced a few deep inhales before running a hand through his hair and striding to the door. He had better see if anything was the matter with Martin.

Martin, as it turned out, was idling in the hallway outside Jon’s door, an indistinct bulky shape tucked under his arm and his hair in quite a state of disarray. He startled at the sound of the door and looked at Jon as though expecting to see a ghost. Funny, Jon thought, coming from the person who was drifting aimlessly about in the halls at odd hours of the night.

“Martin? What are you doing?” he asked, and was mortified to find his voice rather unsteady.

The archives were deep enough in the underbelly of the Institute that there wasn’t the faintest chance of any natural light creeping in. In the low light of a distant fluorescent bulb, Jon could just barely make out Martin’s throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“I-” Martin sounded almost as off-balance as Jon did, gratifyingly. He presented the bulky shape he carried like an explanation – the blanket from his cot. Jon looked at him blankly. “I’m feeling… sort of impulsive,” Martin said. Something about the upturn of his words at the ends gave Jon the impression that Martin himself was surprised by what was coming out of his mouth. “I- I couldn’t sleep, and I was thinking, big old building like this, there’s got to be a roof, right? Thought I’d see if I could get to it. And, uh, if I can, I figured it’d be cold up there, you know?” The hand that wasn’t holding the blanket came up to rub at the back of his neck.

A puff of air escaped Jon, the barest impression of a laugh. “Impulsive,” he echoed. There was quicksilver in his veins. Nothing seemed quite real in the shadow-swathed hallways, and Martin, standing there in his pajamas and bedhead, looked like possibility. “It’s been…quite a while since I was impulsive.”

The silhouette of Martin raised its eyebrows and shifted slightly. The motion made him break away from the shadows clinging to the walls. “You’re welcome to come be impulsive with me,” he said. “If you like.”

Jon smiled.

It was, all things considered, surprisingly easy to find the staircase leading to the roof. For all the twisting hallways and odd turns in the archives, the upper levels of the Institute were relatively clear and easy to navigate. There was, helpfully, a door marked _Roof Access_ tucked away behind several rows of bookshelves in the library, the organization system of which had _clearly_ never come in contact with Gertrude Robinson. Martin laughed when Jon commented that it felt oddly illicit to step past the sign marked _Employees Only,_ igniting another miniature sunburst in Jon’s heart.

Martin trailed behind Jon on the stairs, and when Jon pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and was hit by a wave of cold night air, his breath caught in his chest. The city towered and stretched endlessly before him, glittering with pinpricks of light and more beautiful than he could remember ever thinking of London. They weren’t particularly elevated, certainly not enough to call the view spectacular by any stretch of the imagination, but the new perspective cast their surroundings in a brilliant and glowing light regardless.

A soft _click_ sounded as the door shut behind them, and Martin appeared by Jon’s side. “Wow,” he breathed. There was a pause where they both watched Martin’s breath curl and dissipate in the air. “I’m… really glad I couldn’t sleep.”

Jon laughed lightly. “I am too.”

There was a low wall surrounding the perimeter of the roof, and together they crossed the short distance to lean on it and look out over the city. The streets below were entirely deserted; not even the worms were visible from their vantage point. It looked like a world preserved in amber, awash in distant lights and absolutely motionless. The roof on which they stood may as well have been encased in an impenetrable bubble.

“All seems so far away from here,” Martin said wistfully, echoing Jon’s thoughts so precisely that he faltered for a moment, unsure if he’d thought the words or heard them out loud.

“Perhaps we should just stay up here,” he replied dryly, only half joking. “I’m quite sure we aren’t at risk of worm invasions on the roof.”

Martin’s soft smile was gilded by the glow of distant street lights. “I’ve heard worse ideas.”

“I’m sure at least one of them involved me going to my flat in the dead of night without a word.”

“Yeah, well.” Martin shrugged, smile fading slightly. “It’s definitely on the list.”

With a pang, the memory of Martin’s increasingly frantic messages that night returned to him. There had been a deep pit of guilt in the base of his stomach upon seeing those messages when Martin arrived, but Jon couldn’t deny the fierce fondness with which he had hoarded the memory of such obvious care since then. “You know it wasn’t my intention to cause you distress,” he said, and dared to angle his shoulder just a touch closer to Martin’s. His fingertips scratched restlessly at the brick he leaned on, the rough stone wearing away incrementally at his nails and anchoring him in this weightless moment. “That night… it was a horribly misguided combination of fear and… an attempt at independence, I guess.”

Martin looked him right in the eye, face carefully open and encouraging. “Independence?”

Jon’s jaw worked for a moment as he searched for the right words. With a heavy sigh, he tore his gaze from Martin’s and fixed his eyes firmly on the horizon. “This is, I think, the most isolated I’ve been since… everything,” he told the city at large. He did not want to look over and see the pitying expression that was surely on Martin’s face. “Nobody knows where I am right now. Ah – except you, of course. It’s rather freeing.”

Martin made a wordless, sympathetic noise. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said softly.

“No matter.” Jon waved a dismissive hand, willing the tension his words had woven around them to dissolve. When he chanced a look back at Martin, he found that Martin had turned his gaze back to the city, light glinting off the lens of his glasses and a contemplative frown on his face. “I’m sorry,” he added belatedly. “I didn’t want you to worry. O-or to bring Prentiss up here with us. Let’s just… enjoy the view, shall we?”

In a perfect reversal of Jon’s intentions, Martin tilted his head to look at him, frown deepening. “For the record,” he said, “I’ll worry about you whether you’re running around the city at night or not. You- you know me, can’t not worry about things.” He watched Jon with a strangely vulnerable, piercing expression for a moment, then flicked his eyes away, the color that rose in his cheeks appearing bluish in the dim light. He cleared his throat. “Shame there’s so much light pollution.”

Jon let out a breath of what felt like relief, a wave of fondness rolling through him. Maybe Martin could sense that if they spent too much longer talking about Prentiss, he would wind up with reddened and raw arms again the next morning. Maybe he, too, felt like they were standing in the middle of a snow globe and knew that shaking it would disrupt the moment at some fundamental level. 

“London’s awful for stargazing,” Jon said matter-of-factly, as though he’d spoken to a single person since Georgie about his life before London. “Before I lived here, I would sneak outside some nights just to look at the stars – they were so much clearer there. Drove my grandmother mad.” His voice had lowered of its own volition; these were not words to be said out loud.

Martin hummed quietly in acknowledgment, turning his eyes skyward. For an aching moment, Jon just looked at him. He hadn’t properly allowed himself to do that since coming to terms with his feelings, but bathed in the soft light of the city, face tilted hopefully upwards, the sight of him was almost magnetic. Martin, Jon thought, deserved a backdrop of stars.

“You can’t properly see them here,” he said with some difficulty, “but I used to try and tell which ones were brightest, maybe find out how far away they were. Some stars even look to be different colors, if you look at them closely. It’s all to do with their distance and their heat, if I remember right.”

Visibly fascinated, Martin looked back at Jon. “Which ones are different colors?” Their shoulders bumped together just for a second, leaving a searing imprint of warmth on his arm, and all Jon could think of was distance and heat. Binary stars, orbiting around a single point.

“The higher the surface temperature, the closer to blue it appears,” he said. “Lower surface temperature is red. Both ends of the spectrum are just so faint that it’s difficult to tell from Earth.” It took a concerted effort to shift out of the range of Martin’s warmth, but after a moment of searching, his sacrifice was rewarded. “There, see? Look at that building and then straight up, a little to the left – that one’s just a little bit red, I think.”

Martin squinted and leaned in close to Jon’s vantage point, standing in such a way that the tips of his hair tickled Jon’s cheek. Jon’s heart kicked almost painfully in his chest.

“I… maybe?” Martin said. His breath curled in the air mere inches from Jon’s face. “Maybe, just a bit. Never thought of stars having colors before.” He leaned away from Jon, then maneuvered himself into a sitting position with his back to the wall. It looked terribly uncomfortable. After a moment of hesitation, Jon sat down beside him. The bricks dug sharply into his back, but the entire space felt charged. Electrified. “I don’t know much about stars. I know a couple constellations, though,” Martin went on. “Not sure which ones are visible this time of year, but I think you can basically always see the Plough, can’t you?”

Jon shrugged. When he was standing, he tended to be a bit of a perpetual-motion machine, constantly shifting and fidgeting in some small way, but now he had little in the way of restless movements, and the chill from the concrete he sat on was seeping persistently into his legs. “Always called that one the Big Dipper, myself,” he said through a bodily shiver.

Martin laughed, delighted. “What, like an American? That’s- oh, are you cold?”

Even as he rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to generate friction, Jon shook his head. The fondness in Martin’s scoff was audible, and that alone was nearly enough to warm him back up again.

“Come on,” Martin said. “I came prepared for this, didn’t I? Here we are.” With a broad sweeping gesture, he shook out the blanket and drew it in a single smooth motion across both their shoulders. Jon instinctively leaned a bit closer into the warmth, and as Martin arranged the blanket tidily across his frame, the weight of his arm rested comfortably on Jon’s shoulder. The next breath Jon took was shuddering and slow.

“Alright?” Martin asked. Jon nodded, and instead of pulling away, Martin’s thumb brushed gently over his shoulder. The thundering of his heart was nearly deafening. Slowly, as though Martin’s arm were blown from glass, liable to shatter around him at any moment, Jon leaned back to rest against the wall, tucking himself in closer to the warmth pouring off Martin. Martin didn’t move.

The shiver that ran through him that time had absolutely nothing to do with the cold. Martin’s hand only squeezed him in closer in response, moving to resettle the blanket more firmly around Jon before coming back to rest on his shoulder. He could feel each of Martin’s fingers like a brand through his shirt. Virtually pressed into Martin’s side, set on fire from the inside out, Jon couldn’t tell whose heartbeat it was pulsing through his frame. If he was still cold, he could no longer feel it.

With his free hand, Martin pointed at the sky. “That- um. That bright one’s part of Cassiopeia, I think.” Jon had never been more relieved to hear tension in someone’s voice. If Martin had been blasé about all this, he might have gone out of his mind.

He may well have been on the verge of losing his mind anyway; craning his neck to follow Martin’s line of sight led him to nearly rest his head on Martin’s shoulder, and though he had no idea which star Martin might be pointing at, he had to nod and move his head away again for fear of collapsing in on himself like a red giant going supernova. If he came too close, he may very well burst into stardust, and then all that would be left were the particulates of a nebula.

“The myth of Cassiopeia is quite fascinating, actually,” he said instead of shivering apart into fragments of iron and helium, and let the sound of his own voice erode the heart-pounding nerves bit by bit. As he inhaled the same scent that had clung to the jumper in his drawer, staring up at the infinite universe, it occurred to him that for the first time in quite some time, he wasn't particularly worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I've been daydreaming about that last scene for weeks, so actually getting to write it was amazing. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing it!! 
> 
> I'll see you again in two weeks, on October 22nd! We're getting into some of the really exciting stuff now!!! :):)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: some descriptions of worms, spiders (of the non-spooky variety).


	16. Still Turning Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has an encounter with an unwelcome visitor. Any and all subsequent events can probably be blamed on his head injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke 80k words and 200 pages of my word doc with this chapter!! What a way to celebrate the deeply weird feeling of finally writing events I've been building up to for months. Enjoy!!  
> The title for this chapter is from Turning Out by AJR, a song which has a place of honor on my ace feels playlist for a damn good reason.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! :)

Sometime in the last week, Martin had given up on making eye contact with Jon at all.

Even before the roof ( _god,_ the roof), meeting Jon’s eye had been a fraught exercise at best – for the first few months they’d known each other, Jon had been just as likely to snap at him as he was to issue a disinterested dismissal, and since Prentiss he’d become less abrasive but infinitely shiftier. Jon was hard to pin down. Those few times when he did meet Martin’s eye for more than a passing instant these days, it was in those strangely intense companionable moments they seemed to keep having, between rounds of cards or immediately after making terrifyingly loaded comments about windows, and Martin had no idea what to make of it.

There was a kind of tentative vulnerability to the way Jon had been looking at him lately, and as much as it frightened him, Martin sometimes got so gleefully overwhelmed by it that he had to retreat to the break room and pour himself a cup of tea and try to slow his furious heart rate before he gave himself an aneurysm.

That was _before_ the roof. _God._ The _roof._ It felt like a dream looking back, the sort that would have him waking up blushing and avoiding Jon’s eyes the rest of the day, and he might have brushed it off as a figment of his imagination if it hadn’t been for Jon acting as if he’d just woken up from a mildly embarrassing dream himself. He didn’t meet Martin’s eyes at all anymore, and if he did it was fleeting and invariably followed by an awkward glance away or a hurried change of subject.

Long after everyone else had gone home (or, in Jon’s case, shut themselves in their office for the night) Martin sat alone in the break room, fingers clutched around his mug so tightly he wondered what it would take to shatter it. Maybe Martin would shatter first. It had certainly felt like Jon would have to sweep up the shards of him at any moment that night, humming with nervous energy and counting the stars so he didn’t have to look at Jon’s face and _trembling,_ absolutely _trembling,_ as he tucked Jon in close to his side and Jon _didn’t pull away._

Maybe the last few days had all been an extended hallucination. It would have explained a great number of things.

It was possible Tim had finally just gotten in his head, but the more Martin thought about it, this didn’t seem like nothing. It wasn’t nothing for Jon to _look_ at him like that over lunch, or to try and learn how Martin made his tea, or to offer his goddamn sofa. That last one, Martin was still in recovery from a solid two weeks later. It wasn’t nothing for Jon to lean into the arm Martin curved over his shoulder, to shiver under his touch in a way that just settled him more firmly in Martin’s grip.

Jon had felt so small beneath his arm. Martin hadn’t had a choice but to keep his hand where it was. The vibrations of Jon’s voice had coursed through his palm and into his torso and buzzed there like an entire swarm of bees, and Martin had had the sudden, electrifying realization that he never wanted to let go. He hadn’t stopped thinking about that moment all week; his only consolation was that Jon hadn’t had anything to say about his slip in productivity and focus.

He was quite preoccupied these days. Easily distracted. He kept catching himself staring off into the middle distance with half a smile, his fingers curling on the desk like he still had them wrapped around Jon and a heat like someone had pressed an iron to his insides blazing in his chest. It was safe to do so now that Jon wasn’t around to see, and he didn’t bother trying to hide his grin as he twisted a pen around and around in his hand, mind swimming with snippets of half-formed verse and fragmented sensations.

Really, it was no wonder he was too absent to see the small writhing shape on the ground until it was nearly too late.

It was a stroke of luck that saved him, and that almost scared Martin more than anything else. He could just as easily not have dropped his pen on the ground and absently looked down to pick it back up; he had no idea what might have happened if he hadn’t.

The pen slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Torn from his fantasy, Martin sighed, bent down under the table to search for it, and instead found a slickly shining worm under the table not two feet from where he sat. He stared at it blankly for a fraction of a second, mind not processing what he saw, and then a great deal of things happened in rapid succession.

Martin’s brain caught up to his eyes and he instantly tried to jerk upright and away, forgetting that he had leaned under the table. His head collided with the wood with a horrible _crack,_ and then he was yelling in pain _and_ panic as his chair tipped over behind him and he scrambled backward on all fours. There was a sound of shattering, which he barely had time to register before the door to the break room was slamming open and Jon burst in, eyes wild and chest heaving. He clutched a tape recorder like a weapon, and his head whipped back and forth across the room as he searched for danger.

“Where?” he shouted, crossing the room to Martin in a few long strides and adopting a defensive stance. “ _Where_ , Martin!”

Martin’s breath was too short. All that came out when he tried to answer was a string of frantic, incoherent sounds, but Jon followed his gaze under the table and his eyes narrowed. He stepped purposefully forward, and Martin heard a decisive wet thump as his shoe came down on the worm.

Jon looked him in the eye then, crouching down to where Martin half-lay on the floor with his heart in his throat, and distantly, Martin thought, _oh._ If this was how Jon was looking at him now, it was no wonder he’d been avoiding eye contact. There was such a raw intensity to his gaze that it was nearly dizzying to look at, ferocity and fear laced with a sharp edge of concern that threatened to split Martin open.

“Are there more?” Jon asked, voice rough, looking away from Martin to sweep his gaze across the room. There was tension in every line of his body, shoulders locked and arms nearly shaking where they braced on the ground by Martin’s shoulder.

He swallowed thickly, urging some of the overwhelming panic to subside. “I- I don’t know. I didn’t see more.” His voice was so shaky it was nearly unintelligible, even to his own ears.

Jon nodded curtly. “You stay there. I’ll take a look.” When he stood, making a beeline for the corner of the room where Tim had stashed a fire extinguisher, it was a real effort for Martin not to reach out after him.

Instead, he heaved himself upright to lean against the fridge with a grimace. Now that the adrenaline was subsiding and he had room in his mind for thoughts that weren’t a primal fight or flight, the pain was beginning to catch up with him. He reached a cautious hand to the throbbing spot on the back of his skull and clenched his jaw at the sharp sting that lanced through his head as he made contact, but his fingertips came back unbloodied, so at least he wasn’t due for a trip to A&E.

Jon looked up from where he was upturning sofa cushions at the sound of Martin hissing through his teeth, looking so helpless Martin’s fingers twitched involuntarily in his direction. “Are you alright?” he said, and dropped a cushion on the floor. “Christ, are you hurt?”

Martin waved him off. “Fine,” he said, though the gasp he sucked in when shaking his head made the room spin may have undermined this statement somewhat. “Got a thick skull, nothing to worry about. Two Advil and I’ll be good as new.”

“If you’re sure.” Jon looked distinctly uneasy but returned to his careful inspection of the sofa, throwing wary glances over his shoulder every so often. Every time Martin’s eyes caught Jon’s on one of these glances back, a flare of warmth burst through his chest like an electric shock.

It only took a minute for Martin to decide he was uncomfortable just sitting and watching while Jon worked. There was no reason Jon should search the room by himself. Without sparing a thought for his pounding skull, he tried to get his legs under him and immediately flinched at the resulting spike of pain. He must have made some sort of noise, because Jon turned again to give him an extremely stern look and point a menacing finger in his direction. _“Stay,”_ he said firmly. “If you’ve hit your head, you have no business standing. I’ll come deal with you in a moment.”

Martin frowned a bit but slumped back against the fridge. “I can stand,” he lied. “Is there another fire extinguisher in here? Let me-”

“Martin.” Jon’s tone brooked no argument. Martin had to blink a few times then, because the look Jon was giving him was almost _pleading_ and maybe his head wasn’t quite right after all. “Just wait. It’ll be no help at all if you just injure yourself more.”

“I- Fine.”

“Thank you.”

In stillness, a painfully familiar itching sensation began to wash over Martin, prickling up the backs of his arms and crawling up his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut to will it aside. More for his own benefit than Jon’s, he said, “Good thing Tim put an extinguisher in here after all, I guess.”

“Yes, it is.” Without opening his eyes, Martin tracked the sound of Jon’s footsteps across the room to the table. “Although I wouldn’t be so quick to admit it if he was still in the office.”

Martin smiled fondly and fisted his right hand in the hem of his jumper to avoid scratching at his elbow. “What’d he call it again? Tim Stoker’s Marvelous Worm Defense System, or, or… Miraculous Defense System? I think there was a pun in there somewhere.”

The faint sound Jon made might have been a laugh. Indulgently, Martin allowed himself to believe it was. He liked Jon’s laugh quite a lot. “I was under the impression there was some sort of acronym,” Jon said. “Honestly, though, I was more focused on the actual placement of the extinguishers than whatever brilliant name he came up with.”

Nodding absently, Martin twisted a hand behind him to feel for the slick tail end of a worm where a twinge of pain pulsed through his lower back. The skin there was unbroken and smooth, though maybe a bit bruised, and he breathed a sigh of relief. When he gathered himself enough to look up again, Jon was skirting the shattered ruins of his mug to check the far corner of the room. “Oh,” he said a bit mournfully. “I’ll have to buy a new mug.”

“Oh.” Jon looked down at it blankly, then up at Martin like he was scanning him for symptoms of head trauma. “That’s a shame, yes.”

Martin shrugged. It hadn’t been anything special, really. He’d just liked the way it looked lined up on the shelf with everyone else’s mugs. More than anything, the mug was an easier thing to focus on than the squashed remains of the worm still visible under the table. “Watch your feet,” he said. “The shards could probably cut through your shoe.” As he spoke, his hand finally snuck up to his neck of its own accord, and at the first scrape of nails he jerked his arm away forcefully and blew out a defeated breath. So much for distracting himself, it seemed. He didn’t look Jon in the eye as he said, “Would you, um. When you’re done, make sure there’s no worms on me? Please?”

He barely caught the edges of Jon’s nod in his periphery before there was a muffled _clunk_ and Jon was crouching down beside him, fire extinguisher discarded and hands hovering at a safe distance. “Should have done this first, really,” he muttered, lowly enough that Martin suspected he wasn’t meant to hear it. “Where would you like me to, ah…”

“Oh! Done already? I thought, uh- um. I, I’m pretty sure I’m okay, I just. Itch.” Given how close Jon suddenly was to him, Martin was really quite proud of the coherency of the sentence he managed to string together. He wrung his hands. “Just – the back of my neck, maybe? And, and look if there’s anything I didn’t see?”

“Of course.” Then Jon’s fingertips were on Martin’s shoulder, urging him to lean forward, and Martin winced again as he obeyed quickly enough to make his head sting again. “And then we’ll take care of your head,” Jon added. His gaze was a palpable weight on Martin’s nape. It was an effort to repress a shiver.

“Right,” Martin squeaked, and busied himself with running shaking hands down his arms and legs. The sight of the scar on his hand sobered him somewhat, and it was with no small measure of relief that he was able to look back up at Jon and say, “All clear, I think.”

“Here as well.” Jon’s hand was slow to leave his shoulder, and the tingling echo it left behind lingered even longer. He cleared his throat. “Right. One moment.”

Martin watched as Jon stood and began digging through the freezer compartment of the fridge. It was an awkward angle with Martin practically underfoot, and he wound up hastily scooting himself to the side to make room. When Jon rejoined him on the floor, he was holding an ice pack in one hand and a tea towel in the other. Deftly, he folded the towel around the ice, muttering, “Too cold otherwise,” as if he could sense Martin’s bewildered stare, and reached around to press it to the back of his skull.

_“Ah!”_

Jon’s eyes blew wide with horror. He whipped his hand back. “ _Sorry._ I didn’t mean-”

“Fine, it’s fine! Just wasn’t- _ow-_ wasn’t ready.” Martin touched careful fingertips to the spot Jon had just touched. “Christ, that’s going to be a nasty bruise. You’re right about the ice.”

The expression Jon was making was the polar opposite of his usual response to being told he was right. Carefully, with his eyes fixed so intently on Martin’s face that Martin squirmed a bit under the scrutiny, he reached back around and replaced the ice pack with an exaggerated gentleness that made Martin’s heart squeeze painfully. It still stung, but he clenched his jaw around the hiss that tried to escape.

Had there been a time when Jon avoided Martin’s eyes? He was staring at them with single-minded determination now, face close enough to Martin’s that for a horrifying moment, Martin was sure his heartbeat was audible. He flicked his eyes away, cheeks heating almost violently.

“Look at me,” Jon insisted, and more blood than Martin had been aware was in his body flooded to his face. “No, stop- stop looking away, I need to see if your pupils are dilated. _Martin.”_

Martin managed a long, slow breath as he met Jon’s eyes. That was a nonromantic reason, at least. Thank god – he might have combusted on the spot had Jon not clarified. “What do you think, then,” he said, voice shaking terribly. Jon’s irises were a very, very lovely shade of brown up close. “Concussed?”

Jon shook his head and his eyes immediately darted away. “Seems alright.” He blinked rapidly, then said, “What happened? All I heard was a yell and a crash. Thought you had already turned in for the night.”

“Oh. Right.” Martin brought a hand up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck and startled when his knuckles bumped Jon’s, still cradling the ice pack in place. His face had to be so ridiculously red. “Hit my head on the table when I saw the worm. I was, uh, under it. Picking up a pen.” Out loud, the words sounded absurdly mundane. Hardly worth the fuss he was making now. “Bit of an overreaction, really,” he added, voice slightly too high. “I should really be better than this by now, I- I see those things outside every day.”

“And I still have nightmares.” Jon shrugged, eyes still downcast. “Much as I would like to believe otherwise, Martin, you’ve told me yourself this isn’t the sort of thing that can be controlled.”

“I- yeah, but-”

“Don’t try to tell me it’s different,” Jon said sternly. “It’s not.” Where quite an imposing scowl had taken form, one of the corners of his lips tugged upwards. “I took your advice, you know? I- ha. It sounds odd, but I sleep with socks on my hands now. No more bloody scratches.”

“Oh.” For a searing moment, Martin was unable to speak. This _meant_ something, he was sure of it. He felt the weight of it in his bones. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Jon.”

The sound Jon made was vague, but the tilt of his mouth was distinctly pleased. His gaze flicked back up to Martin’s face for a moment, then right back down. The arm supporting the ice pack was slightly bent at the elbow; he straightened and stretched the joint with a faint pop before returning to his original position without a word.

Belatedly, Martin said, “Oh! You don’t have to, I can-” He reached a hand back for the ice pack, but Jon just grumbled something indistinct and shook his head in chastisement. As he withdrew his hand, Martin’s blush threatened to swallow him whole. “Okay,” he said, barely steady. “Thanks.”

He couldn’t be sure how long they sat there after that, but enough time passed in relative silence that the pain in Martin’s head subsided to a dull throbbing and the color in his cheeks tried valiantly to recede several times but was thwarted by Jon’s sheer proximity. When an icy drop of condensation ran down under his collar, Martin drew in a sharp breath and Jon shifted for the first time in a long while.

“It’s mostly melted by now, I think,” Jon said, finally pulling away. He rotated his wrist as he did so, and at Martin’s anguished look, he gave him such a pointed stare that any protests or apologies Martin might have had dried up in his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said instead as they pushed themselves to their feet with mutually suppressed groans, trying to inject as much sincerity as humanly possible into the words. “Really, Jon. Thank you.”

Jon made a vague noise. “Don’t mention it.” The shifty eyes were back in full force, and Martin wasn’t sure if he was glad for the reprieve from Jon’s piercing stare. The air in the room felt a bit different than before now, though. There was something thick there, and heavy. Martin could probably blame it on his poetic tendencies, but he might have likened it to the dense atmosphere that immediately preceded a thunderstorm.

Silently, he watched as Jon unwrapped the sodden tea towel from the ice pack – unconsciously, he touched a hand to the back of his head to find a twin wet spot – and tucked the pack back in the freezer before flashing one last weighty look in Martin’s direction and making for the door.

Jon didn’t have the faintest idea how to diagnose a concussion.

That was the only logical explanation for what happened then, because there was absolutely no chance head trauma didn’t have a role to play when Martin blurted, “Will you get dinner with me?”

Jon stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly, he turned around with the strangest expression Martin had ever seen on his face. “What?”

“I- _god.”_ Martin swallowed thickly. Tim was in his head, and Georgie, of all people. _You know he’d probably say yes, right? Make the first move._ “You- you don’t have to, of course, and if you want to just forget about this whole thing we can, that’s fine, obviously, but I just-” His hands gripped the hem of his jumper so tightly he wouldn’t have been surprised if it tore. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go out with me. To get dinner.”

“Out,” Jon repeated hollowly. His jaw was completely slack, and he stared at Martin as though he’d turned into a ghost right before his eyes.

Martin pressed a hand to his mouth. There was a slight chance he might be sick, he thought. “Um.” Through lips that had gone completely numb, he mumbled, “Never mind. I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have. Sorry. _God.”_

A fierce sort of determination seemed to come over Jon, and in the moment it took Martin to decide he was _really_ going to be fired this time, Jon tilted his chin upwards to look him square in the eye. “Are you available Saturday at seven?”

Even as his heart punched out a frantic rhythm in his chest, Martin stood petrified. For an impossibly long moment, he just stared at Jon, whose resolute expression did not waver. It took him two tries to get a sound out and another to muster a semi-coherent “Saturday? Y-yeah, I am.”

Jon let out a long breath, which was absurd – Martin was the one doing the panicking here, thank you. “Alright,” he said, with a soft sort of hesitation. “I’m… looking forward to it.”

And he walked out of the room, leaving Martin to stumble to the couch and smother the fragments of an emerging smile with shaking hands.

Saturday. Seven.

* * *

It took exactly ten minutes after he settled down in document storage that night for Martin to convince himself he’d hit his head quite a bit harder than he’d thought and fabricated the entire interaction. His dreams had always been vivid, and his mother had reminded him of his overactive imagination on many different occasions; maybe he’d spent a few minutes passed out on the floor of the break room, had an unusually lifelike dream, and come to with the outlandish belief that he, Martin Blackwood, was supposed to go on a date with _Jonathan Sims._

It didn’t seem feasible, no matter how clearly Jon’s wondering expression was etched into his mind.

That conviction lasted until the next afternoon, when Martin made his way into the break room in a daze with half a mind to unearth the leftovers Tim had bequeathed him the day before. Instead he found Jon standing in front of the fridge, looking extremely flustered and mildly panicked at the sight of him.

Martin instantly went beet red. “Um. Hi.”

“Hi,” Jon echoed, doing a remarkable impression of a deer in the headlights if the deer harbored a moth-like affection for the light that blinded it.

Suffice to say Martin was thoroughly overwhelmed and found absolutely no words in his head when he reached for anything normal to say in response.

Clearing his throat forcefully, Jon turned and yanked the fridge open, grabbed something from inside seemingly without looking (Martin was fairly sure Jon had said something about not liking egg salad, but he couldn’t make a sound to point this out), and clutched it like a lifeline as he moved past Martin. He couldn’t help but be reminded of how Jon had crept toward the door the previous night, right before he’d – well.

“I’d best, uh…” Jon swallowed and jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of his office. “Lots to do, and all. Um. Enjoy your lunch, Martin.”

Right. So they wouldn’t be eating lunch together, then. For the best, probably. A bit helplessly, Martin said, “Yeah, of course. At- at least you’re eating. That’s something.”

Jon’s lips thinned in that way that Martin had learned usually meant he was hiding a pleased expression. He may as well have shot Martin in the chest. “Yes. Uh, yes, I suppose it is,” Jon said, and hesitated in the doorway just for a second. And then – with no warning at all – Jon _smiled_ at him. A real, genuine smile, the kind that Martin had once thought he would never get the chance to see. At least not directed at him.

By the time he recovered enough to wipe the silly grin off his own face, Jon was gone and Martin’s appetite had quite been replaced with a churning anticipation in his gut.

After a quick word with Sasha, he took his lunch break to a nearby hardware store and returned with an excess of CO2 canisters, which he stashed under his cot for the time being. It was highly unlikely that he could stop the timer that had started ticking in his head, relentlessly counting down to Saturday at seven, but at least he could do something about the creeping sensation that haunted him every time he entered the break room. 

As he lay awake in bed the following night (and the night after that, for that matter), Martin got in the habit of looking at his phone almost compulsively. Each time, he subtracted a few minutes from his internal countdown, caught somewhere between elation and sheer panic. He was excited, certainly. But it was an excitement that left him uneasy and jittery, and he could only wonder if two rooms away, Jon was lying awake doing the same.

* * *

6:57p.m. that Saturday evening came far too quickly and found Martin still very much in his own head, working himself into a right state. He paced anxiously outside Jon’s door – surely Jon was a stickler for punctuality – and picked at a loose thread he’d found in his jumper when it was already too late to change into something more presentable. As it turned out, he hadn’t brought a single item of clothing outside of his regular work clothes from his flat, which… it wasn’t as if he was trying to make a first impression at this point, but appearance still _mattered._ Especially when it came to Jon, who was so effortlessly lovely that Martin absolutely paled in comparison. He was even lovely when all that was visible was the back of his head, which was really most of what Martin had seen of him over the last two agonizing days.

Martin paled just a bit more when the handle twisted, and swallowed thickly in time to see Jon step out.

He was also wearing work clothes. His collared shirt was slightly wrinkled, and he was in corduroys. Martin could have wept with relief. “You look nice,” he said, and his heart had crawled so far up his throat that his voice came out uneven and thick.

Jon’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly at the corners as he ducked his head. “As do you.”

The breath Martin let out was tremulous and did nothing to slow his pulse. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. He forced a smile, sure that his nerves were written clearly across every inch of his face. “Um- ready to go, then?”

“Yes, alright.”

They did not hold hands on their way out of the Institute. Not that Martin had expected to, but- he was in the process of living out several months’ worth of fantasies. It would have been a lie to say his arm didn’t twitch out toward Jon’s once or twice.

The worms outside were almost a welcome distraction. Martin was so caught up in his systematic dodging and crushing that he forgot his anxiety for a moment and started heading confidently in the direction of the restaurant before it occurred to him that Jon’s presence at his shoulder had disappeared.

He turned, confused. “Jon? Where’d you- oh.”

Jon stood only a few steps away, but it was clear he’d started heading the other way before having the same realization. He watched Martin with obvious discomfort, hands twisting together. “Ah. I wasn’t sure if you would- I thought-”

“Oh, god.” The sky was darkening, but the sheer force of Martin’s blush could probably have kept the area lit for miles. “I’m sorry, I should have asked where you wanted to go. Let’s- wherever you want.”

“No! No, it’s fine.” Jon was still watching him with something approaching mortification, and Martin couldn’t help wishing Jon would take those few steps to rejoin him so at least the distance between them wouldn’t be quite so physical. “You, uh, took the initiative, so to speak. Lead the way.”

Martin gave a shaky nod. “Right. Sure. It’s, it’s just that Korean place we’ve been to a few times. If that’s alright.”

Finally, finally, Jon crossed the distance and started walking, prompting Martin to follow. “Fine by me,” he said. He still wouldn’t meet Martin’s eyes.

Martin had never been so glad for anything as he was that he’d picked a place only five minutes’ walk from the Institute. The silence between them was deafening, and though they walked at a regular pace, his heart hammered in his chest like he was running a marathon. Even when they made it to the restaurant, there was only an awkward _oh no you first-go ahead-no, no, you_ as Martin ushered Jon through the door and into the close, low-lit atmosphere of the restaurant. It was a place he’d always found just a fraction too intimate for casual dining when they’d had lunch there, but now he longed for the casual air that had surrounded them on previous visits. This was nearly stifling.

“How was your day?” he asked in a desperate plea for normalcy as they slid into opposite sides of a booth. “Haven’t seen much of you recently.”

Jon cringed slightly, just enough for Martin to tell he’d tried to hide it, and his own face contorted into a grimace in response. It was his own fault he’d seen so little of Jon, of course – such were the consequences of changing the entire nature of their relationship. “I’ve been quite busy,” Jon said, seemingly to the napkin he was now picking the edge off of. “I assume you’ve done some research regarding the Laylow statement – surely you’re aware how convoluted it is.”

The Laylow statement was convoluted, yes. It was also rather grisly and just about the last thing Martin wanted to be thinking about during dinner. He nodded weakly.

“There’s just something off about the whole affair,” Jon went on. “Not even taking into consideration the architecture of the place, there are glaring logical flaws with it all.”

Martin could hardly focus on what Jon was saying. He was gesturing now, visibly irritated at the incongruous nature of the statement, and all Martin could think was that maybe he’d rushed into something neither of them was ready for. He didn’t even know why Jon had said yes – he was clearly nervous, definitely more than a little uncomfortable, especially if he was resorting to statements for conversation.

A waiter stopped by their table, and in half a panicked daze, Martin named the first item off the menu he recognized. He didn’t hear Jon’s order, but it didn’t matter, because then Jon was going on about Laylow again, and something about factory lines, and he looked so _serious._ Like he was briefing Martin on a file in his office, not sitting across from him at a restaurant on a _date._ Normally Martin would have been happy just to listen to Jon go on about cases all night, but the situation seemed to demand more weight. He wanted - selfishly, he wanted to see Jon smile again. He wanted that light joking atmosphere they’d only just achieved back, and he wanted to touch him the way he had on the roof, an arm around his shoulder or fingers twined together. Their booths were close enough together that their knees knocked together under the table, but the space between them felt monumental.

It took him too long to become aware of the silence that had fallen, and longer to realize that Jon was looking at him expectantly. “Martin?”

If Martin hadn’t already been bright red before, he certainly was now. “Sorry. I was just- sorry. What did you say?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “I said that I’d dismiss the entire case out of hand if only it would record digitally,” he said. “But that’s not- are you feeling alright?”

“Fine!” Martin said too quickly. There were scraps of paper neatly piled where Jon had torn the edge of his napkin to shreds. He focused on those instead of Jon’s face. The one thing he’d wanted was not to muck up this date, and already he was missing things, paralyzed and absent in the face of the thing he’d wanted the most for _months._ He was so used to distant longing that he didn’t have a clue how to deal with whatever this was, which was just typical, wasn’t it? The scolding voice in his head sounded eerily like his mother’s. He’d been distracted during his visit with her that morning too. It hadn't been well-received then, and it certainly wasn't now.

Jon kept watching him with that evaluating gaze, clearly unconvinced. 

Martin sighed. Hiding his burning face behind a hand, he mumbled, “I’m just… _so_ nervous, Jon.”

“Oh.” When Martin dared to peek out from behind his hand, there was a hesitant smile on Jon’s face. Something tight in his chest wound even tighter, then loosened just slightly at the sight. “Is that all? I thought I’d ruined your appetite with all the… well. All the talk of meat. And blood. Not very appealing, in hindsight.”

With perfect comedic timing, the waiter reappeared at that moment to set down their food. Martin just managed to keep his face in check until the man had left before a single helpless laugh burst out of him.

There was something akin to relief in Jon’s expression when Martin met his eyes again. His next breath came a bit easier. “Maybe a bit unappetizing,” he agreed. “We could… talk about something other than work for now?”

Like a switch had been flipped, Jon’s face went closed off again. He nodded, but with that same serious frown Martin had just so proudly eradicated. Martin’s heart sank. Somehow, even the most innocuous statements were the wrong thing to say coming from him.

“I’ll leave off the statement talk,” Jon said stiffly. He fidgeted uncomfortably with his chopsticks, making no move toward his food. “But there is a work matter we need to address.”

Well. This would certainly be the strangest situation Martin had ever been fired in. And he’d thought he’d cleared that particular hurdle when Jon hadn’t dismissed him on the spot after Martin had asked him to dinner, too. He grimaced. “I… yeah. I was afraid you might say that.”

“Right.” Jon looked pained; maybe it would just be a transfer, not a flat-out release. Martin liked the folks in the library well enough. He braced himself, and Jon seemed to do the same before he said, “There is, obviously, the issue of power imbalance.”

Martin blinked. “What?”

“I’ve consulted the employee handbook, and while there aren’t any explicit rules against… this sort of outing, it _is_ standard workplace conduct not to engage with coworkers, much less employees,” Jon said. He paused, looking at Martin with confusion. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“ _Jon!_ I thought you were about to sack me!”

Jon had the good grace to look appalled. “Good lord. In the middle of dinner? Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Martin said, reeling just a bit. A sort of frantic urgency was bubbling up in him, wild and blinding. “Maybe because I made you really uncomfortable when I asked you out? Or because I’m just not that good at research, and this was the last straw? I can think of a lot of reasons, actually.”

At some point during Martin’s tirade, Jon’s hand had clenched into what looked to be a death grip on his chopsticks. His knuckles had gone pale, and Martin could see his own agitation mirrored in Jon’s wide eyes. “I can assure you that is not the case,” he said firmly. “But the fact that you went into this evening expecting to be fired _precisely_ proves my point.”

Martin swallowed a humorless laugh. “Jon, I’ve been expecting to be fired every day since I was hired. That’s nothing new.”

“Regardless, this isn’t a sustainable dynamic,” Jon insisted, looking more in his element now that he had a point to prove. If it hadn’t been for the heavy feeling settling in Martin’s gut, he might have found it charming. “It’s… concerning enough that you have so little security in your job, but that imbalance in a relationship-” Martin’s heart jolted painfully at that word- “It’s just not advisable,” Jon said, meeting Martin’s eyes with something like desperation. “You must see that.”

Deflating, Martin took a spoonful of his soup. He didn’t really taste it. All the urgent energy that had crowded his veins a moment ago was bleeding out now, and in its absence he was hollow. “Yeah,” he said, more to his bowl than to Jon. “Yeah, that makes sense. Just convinced myself it wouldn’t be a problem, I guess.” Gratifyingly, Jon seemed a bit downtrodden and maybe slightly flushed when Martin dared a glance up at his eyes. “Can we just change the subject for now? We can talk about this later, or- later.” He swallowed down the _next time_ that sat on the tip of his tongue. It left a bitter taste clinging to his teeth.

“Of course.” Jon cast his eyes downward, looking at his plate for possibly the first time since it had been set before him. “Let’s just enjoy the evening, shall we?”

The message couldn’t have been clearer: _enjoy this while it lasts. It will be over soon._

“Sure,” Martin said, falsely bright and fighting furiously not to let his voice thicken. “Sure. What was it you were saying about that new artefact, earlier?”

The smile Jon gave him didn’t reach his eyes, but he started speaking. Martin tried to pay attention and enjoy it.

On the way back from the restaurant, in one final desperate attempt to gauge whether Jon’s reluctance was superficial or at least to pretend things had gone right for a moment, Martin swung his hand deliberately toward Jon’s. He mistimed it; the backs of their palms bumped together clumsily, and Martin pulled away. Jon glanced down at his hand and then up at Martin with an unreadable expression, lips slightly parted like he had half a mind to speak, but instead he sighed heavily and turned his gaze to the darkened street ahead.

“I had a nice time,” Jon said when they’d made it past the worms and back into the Institute. That same apprehensive, mournful expression was still firmly on his face, and Martin could have burst. Jon was beautiful and incurably truthful and an absolutely terrible liar.

With a wavering smile that he hoped conveyed an apology, Martin said, “So did I. Good night, Jon.”

He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was apologizing for, but Jon smiled just a bit before saying, “Good night, Martin,” and retreating into his office, and that felt like acceptance.

* * *

Martin lay awake for a long, long time after that.

Everyone had bad- no, _mediocre_ dates once in a while, he told himself as he stared up at the ceiling. Even with people they really liked. Even with people they’d harbored unrequited feelings for through months and several traumatic experiences. Even if they’d been reasonably sure those people knew about their feelings and possibly had sneaking suspicions that they might be reciprocated.

Well. Tim probably didn’t. That was different, though.

Even the voice in Martin’s head sounded dejected. The thing was, he had _really_ thought it was going to go well. He’d been scared out of his mind, yes, but in a hopeful sort of way. Like getting ready to jump from a plane, but knowing that he was strapped to a perfectly functional parachute.

“Why didn’t you just _say,”_ he mumbled into the darkness. Jon had had so much time to talk to him about the power imbalance situation, if that was what was bothering him. And if it wasn’t, if that was just an easy cover for some deeper issue… Martin wasn’t really prepared to consider that option yet. For the night, at least, he could allow himself the selfish deception that Jon's reluctance was purely professional.

In a burst of – idiocy? masochism? – he pressed fingertips to the bruise still lingering on the back of his skull and grimaced at the pain. Jon’s hand had been right there, right before it all went wrong. He hadn’t imagined the tenderness with which Jon had cradled the ice against his head. Maybe he’d just misjudged how willing Jon would be to acknowledge it.

The cot creaked as Martin rolled off to the side into a sitting position and briefly scrubbed his hands over his face. He clicked his phone on and recoiled at the brightness, then groaned as he registered the time. 3:42. Excellent. Sleep was probably a lost cause, then. Some tea might at least clear his head.

Between the exhaustion and the sheer tangled speed at which his thoughts were moving, Martin didn’t register that the break room lights were on until he was already inside, blinking against the hazy imprints of lightbulbs on the backs of his eyelids.

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t alone in the room.

“Oh,” he said numbly. Jon stood by the counter, looking about as bewildered as Martin felt. He was clearly dressed for bed, and Martin’s heart gave a single unfair squeeze at the way Jon’s sleeves pooled around his hands and his hair straggled over his shoulders. He looked ethereal, not unlike a mirage in the wavering fluorescents, and Martin _loved_ him so much it hurt.

“I, uh. Couldn’t sleep,” Jon said before Martin could open his mouth to ask. “Didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“Thinking too much to sleep,” Martin said, shocked into honesty. His eyes landed on the counter behind Jon, and a puff of air that was almost a laugh escaped him. “You came for tea too?”

Jon reached behind him and took a sip from his mug, leveling a distasteful frown at it. “Tastes better when you make it,” he said. He raised the tea to his lips again, grimaced, and sighed as he met Martin’s eyes with a devastatingly open expression. “We should talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! I've been wildly nervous to post this chapter, so I really hope you enjoyed it!! Sorry for the end (and the middle whoops), but I promise I'll make it up to you soon!! In two weeks, to be precise - November 5th! At the risk of sounding like a broken record, thank you guys so much. Your support continues to mean the world to me and absolutely fuels this story. Have a lovely day <3  
> Side note: I've added the "additional tags to be added" tag, but that's just because there are some things I don't want to tag yet bc of spoilers. I won't be changing the rating or major archive warnings :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: Descriptions of worms (no actual infestation), minor head injury, brief mentions of Martin's mother being unpleasant.


	17. The Good Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inherent romanticism of running into someone at 3am as you have the exact same crisis...?  
> Jon and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one doesn't look at all the way I expected it to, but I kind of love how it turned out and I really hope you will too :)  
> Also, this chapter got its title not because we've officially reached the good part of this fic (although... maybe! I'll let you be the judge!) but because it's named after The Good Part by AJR. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! :)

Try as he might, Jon was simply not very good at making tea.

Maybe it was something about the heat of the water, or the length of the steep. Surely there was some kind of science behind what kind of teabag was used for what occasion, or perhaps the trick was in one of those absent teabag-bobbing motions Jon had tried copying time and time again to no avail. Maybe it had something to do with the degree of care that was put into the cup. Jon was well versed in precision, but the kind of tender thoughtfulness that apparently went into a good cup of tea was absolutely beyond him.

What Jon managed to produce was somehow both bland and unpleasant enough to wrinkle his nose, but at least it was better than spending hours morosely pacing back and forth across his office until his head spun. _Wearing a hole in the floor,_ his grandmother would have called it, and Jon would have answered that at least vanishing into an abyss of his own making would have been well deserved. He’d certainly spent most of the few hours leading up to this point wishing the ground would open beneath him and swallow him up.

Hours ago, after turning his back on Martin’s quietly heartbroken face, Jon had briefly entertained the idea of calling Sasha. It had worked well enough for him in his previous crisis, but this time he dismissed the thought almost immediately. There was nothing Sasha could say to him that he hadn’t already used to berate himself, even if he was sure she would have tried to phrase it a bit more delicately. He doubted that when Sasha had told him what a good person Martin would be to explore his feelings with, she had taken into account Jon’s track record of general prickliness and self-sabotage.

It was still an absolute mystery to him that Sasha hadn’t dismissed the idea of him and Martin working in any capacity out of hand. Jon certainly had; he’d never even seriously considered that Martin’s genial nature and casual affection could be anything other than platonic until that night on the roof, and even then he hadn’t dared imagine anything coming of it. Until that fateful moment a few nights ago, when he’d run into the break room fearing for their lives and returned to his office an hour later fearing for his own soundness of mind.

In a way, it was a perfect microcosm of their relationship; without even asking, Martin somehow managed to pinpoint and offer exactly what Jon wanted, and without fail, Jon proceeded to sour the entire experience.

Which left him feeling hollow and sipping idly at a terrible cup of tea in the break room at something like quarter to four in the morning. Another microcosm, perhaps, of the entire experience of romance and the failure therein. Rubbing at his temple, he eyed his discarded teabag where he’d set it aside on a saucer and dunked it back in the cup. It wasn’t as if he could make things worse.

His timing in replacing the sopping teabag in his mug was phenomenal. He was fairly certain that if he’d waited a few seconds longer, he would have gotten the talking-to of his life on his improper tea-brewing technique. Instead, Jon turned just in time to distantly register the sound of footsteps and watch the very person he’d come into the break room to have this crisis about pause in the threshold and squint blearily at the lights.

He could pinpoint the exact moment Martin’s eyes focused on him by the way his expression wiped blank and was replaced by something on the sliding scale between horror and misery. All Jon could do was stare, petrified.

“Oh,” Martin said. It was the sort of sound no one ever made deliberately, only extractable by virtue of a punch to the gut, physical or emotional.

Jon swallowed. “I, uh. Couldn’t sleep,” he said, as if that was any sort of excuse. As if that wiped him clean of the memory of Martin’s face throughout the evening, crumpling with sorrow in slow motion. “Didn’t think you’d still be awake.” _Didn’t think at all. I’m sorry._

“Thinking too much to sleep.” Martin raised his eyebrows, a small measure of reluctant humor crossing his face. “You came for tea too?”

_Only by the loosest definition of tea,_ Jon nearly said, then thought better of it. The words fell so flat even in his head that he couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to drag them into reality. In half an effort to at least fill his mouth with a different sort of bad taste, he took another sip from his mug and found with a grimace that reintroducing the teabag hadn’t much improved the situation.

“Tastes better when you make it,” he admitted, with a feeling like someone was cracking his ribcage open to expose the pulpy softness inside. It was well worth the sting to see the look on Martin’s face, cautious and infinitesimally hopeful. Martin had looked exactly the same after Jon had agreed to the date, he realized. The thought sent a sudden wave of stillness over him, so strong it was almost jarring.

Caught somewhere between clarity and outright paralysis, Jon took a slow breath. It came in a shuddering burst, but it was the kind of shuddering that accompanied a great pressure lifting off his chest for the first time in hours. Martin was watching him with such naked vulnerability. All he had to do was say something, anything, and maybe that would be enough to salvage the situation. He managed one more fortifying sip of tea, which he immediately decided would be his last, before he said with a shocking steadiness, “We should talk.”

“Yeah. We should.” Martin had gone quite pale, but the same staunch determination Jon had seen him face down threats of worm invasion with steeled his features. He looked _brave_ , even with the edge of apprehension that crept across his face as he added, slightly smaller, “But let me at least make some tea first.”

Martin made tea. Two cups of tea.

By the time a new steaming mug was pressed into his hands and they settled uncomfortably businesslike at opposite ends of the table, Jon’s sudden burst of resolve had mutated into something quiet and volatile and intermittently sparking in the base of his stomach. Tea didn’t drown it, but it did suffuse him with a warm sort of ache.

“This is good,” he said softly into the stillness between them.

Martin’s smile was faint but genuine. “Good,” he echoed, then sighed. “Alright, let’s… let’s get this over with, right? I- before anything else, I wanted to say that I’d like to stay friends.”

Freshly brewed though it was, the sip of tea Jon had just taken felt ice cold as it slid down his throat. He swallowed thickly. “Ah.”

“Oh. Unless… unless you don’t want to, of course.” Martin rubbed at his face, stuck on an expression like a prolonged flinch, and nearly dislodged his glasses in the process.

Jon took a moment to steel himself, summoning all his courage to look right at Martin. “I don’t.”

Martin’s eyes snapped up to his, dismay obvious in the lines of his face visible through his fingers, and Jon drew in a sharp breath and hurried to add, stumbling over the words, “I- that is- Christ, Martin. I don’t know how to-” He broke off, words and nameless emotions haplessly tangled inside him, and gave Martin a look verging on desperation.

“Go on.” That terribly fragile vulnerability was back on Martin’s face, but this time it was catching. As Martin leveled a patient, expectant look at him, Jon felt at once like a glass figurine and like the hammer swinging down upon it at terminal velocity. Damocles and his sword.

Shattering and shattered, he stared into the murky depths of his mug. “When you asked me to dinner,” Jon said eventually, the words so soft it felt like they could bruise under the gentlest touch. “Martin, there was a moment where I thought I was dreaming.”

“Oh,” Martin breathed. “Oh. In- in a good way?”

“In… yes. In a good way.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Martin repeated, this time like a revelation. “Honestly, I…” He huffed a laugh into his mug. “I kind of convinced myself you just said yes to be polite. Or you didn’t actually think it was a date, or something.” He met Jon’s eyes with a deeply earnest expression. “That’s… not what happened, is it?”

Jon’s heart was pulsing out a frantic rhythm; if turned inside out, he was sure his ribcage would be littered with bruises. They would match the ones he imagined on his fingertips, where he clutched his mug hard enough to hurt. “No. It’s not.”

“Okay. Okay.” Martin took a sip of tea, gave Jon a look like he was a particularly difficult jigsaw, and let out a long breath. “Then what _happened?_ Look, I- I know with you as my boss, it’s a bit out of sorts and all, but then… why’d you say yes?”

There was a note of pleading in Martin’s eyes when he looked up again, and Jon nearly deflated at the sight. He had a hand pressing to his chest before he could register the action, trying to soothe the phantom ache that flared out from within. “I wanted to,” he said with difficulty, the words tearing at his throat on their way out.

“Yeah?”

Numbly, Jon nodded. “I wanted to,” he repeated, because it was suddenly deeply important that this message didn’t get smothered in the flow of conversation. “I… I suppose I only realized later that this might be a conflict of interest.”

“Right.” Martin picked at one of the sleeves of his jumper, twisting and tugging at a single strand on the verge of coming free. Avoiding Jon’s eyes, he said, “I- I guess then my only question is, is it still a conflict of interest? Because if it is, I…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Jon knew what that shrug meant. It sent something cold and leaden seeping through his veins. His voice was stiff and shook slightly. “The Institute doesn’t strictly prohibit, uh… employee entanglements.” Blood rushed to his face at the very thought, but he pressed on. “It’s still in extremely bad form to… well, you know. With direct subordinates. It’s simply not done.” He waved his hands around vaguely to circumvent the word _date,_ but the alternative may have been even worse; Martin’s eyes flicked up at the motion, and the raw, helpless fondness in his gaze was nearly incapacitating.

“Checked the handbook, have you?” Martin said, soft despite his teasing words.

“I… might have.”

“Of course you did.” Martin smiled, but it was slightly strained and quickly gave way to the worried expression Jon was so familiar with. “What does- God, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he said. A hand came up to rub at his temple. “If you wanted to- that is, i-if you still want to- what does the handbook say to… maybe trying again?”

Jon couldn’t breathe. _Yes,_ he thought fervently, and opened his mouth to say so, but what came out was a broken, “You thought I was going to fire you.”

Martin flinched. “I- sort of. For a second. It’s not-.”

“That’s unacceptable. Martin, we can’t have that.”

“I guess not.” Martin’s voice had taken on a thin, paperlike quality.

“Which means as for trying again-” Jon breathed in deeply, then let the air all out in a rush. It didn’t help. How could it, when he was on the brink of actively pushing away the very thing he had been aching for? His hand found its way into his hair and gripped it tightly, worrying at the strands. He cringed at the sharp tug against his scalp as much as at the words stuck in his throat, already razor-sharp and ready to carve into him. “I think,” he said, strangled, “that even if it were technically- I mean, I- I’ve checked the handbook, Martin, and it’s not forbidden, but there’s still _etiquette_ to think about, and given your apparently nonexistent job security, the emotional risk… I can’t think of any way that isn’t…”

“Actually,” Martin broke through his clamoring thoughts, suddenly clear and resolute. “I think you’ve probably done enough thinking for the both of us tonight, Jon. Forget what you think. What do you _want?”_

Jon blinked.

“If that’s nothing, then fine,” Martin added. “But please-” Cautiously, he reached out a hand and touched Jon’s wrist, waiting for his fist to unclench before drawing it away from his hair. For a moment, Jon was certain Martin’s hand would slide upward and lace their fingers together, and his heart stuttered painfully. But he withdrew after a moment, the weight of his gaze almost as tangible as the residual burn where his fingertips had rested, and said, “Only if that’s really what you want. Please, Jon.”

A small choked noise escaped Jon, raw and pathetic. “What does it matter what I want?” he managed. “There’s only one option that doesn’t leave us in a state of- of _absolute_ imbalance. It isn’t a question of _want.”_

“Isn’t it?” There was a note of mourning in Martin’s voice, and Jon didn’t dare look up to see it reflected on his face. “Isn’t da- uh- trying these things meant to make you happy?”

Jon couldn’t reply. His undrunk mug of tea was going lukewarm in his hands, as if he were personally leeching its heat away. His fingertips were numb anyway.

Martin sighed. “For the record, I asked you out because I _like_ you. Kind of a lot,” he said. “And I still do. I- that night, you said you felt like you were dreaming? I felt like I was _floating,_ Jon. I was so happy I didn’t know how to feel it all at once. And that’s-” He blushed deep crimson all the way down to his neck. Jon couldn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t look away. Peripherals were the only place he was safe. “That’s enough poetics, I think,” Martin finished unsteadily. “I know how you feel about those. But what I’m saying is… I guess I’m just saying that I trust you. And I trust you not to fire me over this. It was stupid to think you would. So if that’s what’s holding you back, just… don’t let it. Please.” He sat back, worrying at the hems of his sleeves again and waiting.

There was a spot where Martin had picked at his jumper almost enough to pull a thread loose. Jon focused on it intently. There was some sort of rule, wasn’t there, about looking at the horizon to help with seasickness? This was as good an anchor as any. His world was tipping and turning on its side, threatening to capsize. “I don’t mind your poetics,” he said senselessly, helplessly, before he had a chance to think about the words and went furiously red. “And I won’t fire you for this. I wouldn’t.”

“I know.” There was a superficial calm to Martin’s tone, but a single glance up at his face was enough to dispel this notion. His eyes darted around nervously like he, too, was searching for a fixed point to latch onto – like he’d been thrown underwater and couldn’t tell which way was up. Distressingly, his gaze kept landing back on Jon.

Jon imagined bursting out of water into open air. He imagined surface tension exploding around him, and he imagined finally filling his lungs. He said, “There would have to be rules in place.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. Jon tasted salt.

Then Martin nodded slowly. A different kind of tension touched his features now, particularly the corners of his mouth. “Alright. What sort of rules?”

Jon reminded himself that he was not drowning and filled his lungs. He looked up at Martin’s face and anchored himself there instead. “This cannot influence our working relationship,” he said in a voice he hoped sounded appropriately stern. It was hard to maintain a serious tone with Martin visibly fighting a losing battle against his smile. “Our professional situation may already be unusual, but that is no reason to leave decorum behind.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” Martin gave up controlling his expression and suddenly Jon’s lungs were empty again. “Tim gloats enough when he’s right about the outcome of a case, anyway. I’m not too keen on giving him the satisfaction.”

“Second – wait. What do you mean, _Tim.”_ Jon frowned, a dull ache lancing through his chest. “Did Sasha tell him?”

Martin spluttered. “What – _Sasha?_ Why do _you_ know that Sasha knows?”

Jon stared. Martin stared back, bewildered.

“Jon,” Martin said slowly. “What exactly does Sasha know?”

“Something she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” he grumbled.

One of Martin’s eyebrows crept steadily toward his hairline. “And… what might that be?”

Jon huffed. He didn’t look at Martin as he admitted, haltingly, “I may have… confided in her about certain things. About… this. It doesn’t really bear repeating.”

There was an agonizing pause, and then Martin said, slightly strangled, “Oh. Right. Alright then. That’s- um. Never mind, then.”

“Well- hold on. What does _Tim_ know?”

Martin laughed, a breathy, helpless sound. “God, are you going to make me say it?”

The faintest smile tugged at Jon’s lips. At least he wasn’t the only one vastly out of his depth. “Seems only fair.”

With a scowl that Jon was almost ninety percent sure was put on, Martin sighed. “Fine, fine. In the interest of open communication and, you know, trust and all that, Tim… _may_ be ridiculously invested in, uh. Us? Sorry. It’s-” He rubbed at the back of his neck like he was trying to wipe away the heat of the blush visibly gathering there and swallowed. “I’ve not been very subtle, you know.”

It wasn’t the first time that night that Jon had wished the ground would swallow him up, but at least this time it was because he was vaguely overwhelmed and not regretting his entire existence. It wasn't as if he'd been outstandingly aware of such things in the past, but he would have expected more of himself than actually being the last person in the office to learn about something that directly involved him. The laugh that escaped him was more than half hysteria. “And I’ve not been very observant, apparently.”

If Jon didn’t know any better, he might have thought the look Martin was giving him meant he was waiting for him to implode. “Christ, Jon. I wouldn’t have sprung the date on you if I’d known you didn’t _know_.”

It took a fortifying sip of tea, then another, for Jon to be able to reply, “I’m glad you did.”

The noise Martin made was tiny and wordless. He seemed to grapple with something for a long moment, mouth opening and closing in stops and starts as he wrung the hand that wasn’t on his mug, and eventually he settled on a mildly incredulous, “Can I hold your hand?” His own hand immediately whipped up to cover his mouth, and he looked at Jon with something between anguish and hope.

For a moment, it was all Jon could do to stare as a crushing amalgamation of all the times Martin had touched him burst into his mind. If a hand on the shoulder left him raw and tingling for hours, how would the intensity of Martin’s hand deliberately in his compare? Silently, his every nerve ending electrified, Jon laid a hand flat on the table between them, palm up. It shook like there was already a current running through it.

The weight of Martin’s hand settling on his was in no way comparable to lightning. It was warm and heavy and blissfully grounding. Unconsciously, he released a long breath and glanced up to see Martin doing the same, bright red and staring at their hands with something like reverence. It wasn’t _holding,_ really; all it was was Martin’s hand laying solidly atop Jon’s, enveloping it almost completely with fingers barely curled. All it was was contact, desperately real in the faint haze that accompanied the late hour.

“I’m willing to put in for a transfer out of the archives,” Jon said when he found his voice again, albeit raw and too soft to allow for any sort of dignity. Already he was cursing himself for how impossible the idea of moving his hand away from Martin’s felt. Thinking of it all as a matter of business, of negotiation, was easier than focusing on the searing oval of heat where their palms overlapped in an odd Venn diagram. “If there’s an… issue at any point, or if it’s uncomfortable.”

Martin looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head, and there was the lightest squeeze in the curl of his fingers. “If anyone’s transferring out of the archives, don’t you think it should be me and not the _Head Archivist?”_

“It would be my moral duty as your superior. And besides,” Jon said very reasonably. "You love the archives."

“Oh, for-” Martin threw up his hands (or, rather, his hand; the one on Jon’s twitched upwards but refused to lose contact like it had been magnetized). “Don’t be daft,” he said fondly. “You’re _part_ of why I like the archives, you know.”

“Oh,” Jon said weakly, with the singular sensation of all his internal organs melting into a puddle in his abdomen. “Alright.”

There was something else he should say, probably, but he found that words evaporated into mist when he reached for them. All he could do was sit in silence and monitor the swelling of his heart where it pressed into his windpipe and left his breaths shuddering and deep.

Thankfully, Martin took mercy on him. “Right, okay, so – nothing on the clock, obviously, and we have to talk about it if the dynamic ever feels unfair, and- no one’s transferring for now, okay? Not unless there’s a good reason for it? That sound right to you?”

Jon rallied all the seriousness he had left in his system and said, “I suppose so, but… If you have _any_ objections, Martin, I _need_ to know.”

Martin laughed. “You’re kidding. I’m sitting here holding the hand of the man I’ve- uh. I, I’ve had to check in with myself a few times to make sure I’m not dreaming, Jon. This is… I couldn’t be happier. Really.”

If Jon’s hand clutched against Martin’s a bit involuntarily at that, he couldn’t be blamed. It was nearly – he frowned at the clock – Christ, nearly five in the morning. Finer motor functions were beyond anyone at that sort of hour. “Alright then,” he said, voice barely shaking. “We’ll- we’ll give it a try, shall we?”

Martin nodded fervently but didn’t speak; he didn’t have to. His face was expressive enough that Jon could tell his thoughts as clearly as if he’d shouted them. The deep red had yet to subside from his cheeks, his lips were stretched into a broad smile that twitched once in a while as though he’d tried to stifle it and failed, and his eyes, warm and affectionate behind his glasses, blinked heavily-

The yawn caught Jon off guard. The hand he raised wasn’t enough to smother it as his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw cracked. “Sorry,” he mumbled when it passed. In the absence of the abject horror that had plagued him since the date, a deep-rooted exhaustion was starting to take hold. The fact that Martin’s presence and soft smile seemed to radiate warmth didn’t help matters.

Martin hummed. “You should get some sleep,” he said softly, and when Jon gave him a pointed look, he amended, “We both should. It’s late.”

How had Jon ever thought that was anything but bald affection in his voice? His breath caught in his chest again, but this time the deep, heavy fatigue settling over him had nothing to do with it. As Martin drew a hand up to cover his own yawn, the motion awkward with his dominant hand still occupied, Jon could barely contain the flood of warmth swelling up around his heart.

“I’m used to it,” he said with a good deal less nonchalance than he had hoped to achieve. He shrugged, hoping halfheartedly that the movement would spur him back out of this sleepy haze. “I’ve found sleeping at odd hours, uh… lessens the dreams somewhat.”

“Ah. Right.” Warm and drowsy as he was, Jon didn’t even jump when Martin’s fingertips grazed lightly over the sensitive skin of his wrist. He did turn his gaze down as if he could anchor the touch there with his eyes. Martin went on, “Prentiss really did a number on us, didn’t she?”

Absently, Jon said, “Her too, of course. But I keep dreaming statements. Mostly the live ones.”

“No wonder,” Martin murmured. “Never seen anyone work as much as you. It makes sense that they’re in your head.” His hand gave Jon’s one more gentle squeeze before withdrawing as he stood to carry their mugs to the sink. “All the more reason for you to get some sleep,” he added over his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, I know.”

As he ran the mugs under the tap, Martin kept throwing little glances backwards like Jon might have vanished in the interim. The second time Jon caught his eye in this movement, he smiled wryly at him and was rewarded with a violent blush that spread all the way under Martin's collar.

“I think I’ll turn in,” he said, because the alternative was to stay and watch Martin rinse out dishes indefinitely with that unbearable softness in his eyes, and only one of those options was conducive to a stable state of mind. “Will you be up long?”

Absurd. Ridiculous. Frankly, it didn’t matter whether Martin would be up long, but somehow it _did._ With the tentative smile creeping across Martin’s face, it did matter.

“No, I’ll go too,” Martin said decisively. He laughed softly. “I might not be able to sleep, but I’ll at least go to bed.”

“What? Why not?”

There hadn’t really been a point in the evening when Martin _hadn’t_ been some shade of red, but he still managed to flush a bit darker. “I’ll be busy convincing myself this actually happened, I think.”

“Oh.” Jon’s face heated to match Martin’s, and before he could think too much about it, he said, “I’ll remind you in the morning, if necessary. Good night, Martin.”

He turned and made for his office too quickly to see Martin’s face, but the slightly strangled laugh and soft, “Good night, Jon,” followed him through the halls and echoed persistently in his mind even as he shut the door behind him. Jon's feet barely touched the ground as he walked; he was strangely light, like a balloon full to bursting with helium.

For a moment, he perched on the edge of his cot with his eyes shut, half desperately glad for a reprieve from the onslaught of emotion and half wishing he hadn’t gone so abruptly. His hand still tingled, colder than the rest of him where he’d grown used to the heat of Martin’s touch, and he flexed it absently.

More than anything, it was sheer impulse that had him standing back up again and locking the door. He was hardly conscious of his actions as he crouched to open the bottom drawer of his desk and extracted its contents, but he was intensely aware of the heft and heat of Martin’s jumper as he tugged it over his head and let the sleeves entirely swallow his hands. It was a violation of some kind, probably. He couldn’t particularly find it in himself to care. He was warm, and the door was locked.

The nightmare that night was of Melanie King, all shadowy hospital wings and loose skin, but when he jolted awake an hour later, it was easy enough to settle back into the jumper’s soft embrace and shut his eyes again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were supposed to be other scenes in this chapter, I swear. The conversation just ended up getting SO long and then the other stuff I had planned ended up making more sense next chapter... Endless scene aside, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! I had a lot of fun writing it. Unfortunately I'm still not quite on track to return to a weekly schedule, but I will do my very best to get back there. For now, the next chapter will be up in two weeks, on November 19th! Thank you so much for your patience and your kindness <3
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: None! As always please let me know if I'm missing anything :)


	18. A Little Bit of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of their conversation, Martin learns to navigate a reality in which his feelings may actually be reciprocated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this chapter is from Those Nights by Bastille. Enjoy! :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.

There were two used mugs in the sink, and Martin kept having to blink away a haze of exhaustion that told him exactly how many hours of sleep he’d achieved that night.

He’d watched Jon sip anxiously at that very mug just hours ago. There was still a brownish residue where he hadn’t rinsed out all the tea before setting it down. It was solidly, indisputably _real._ Visual evidence aside, Martin didn’t have _that_ much of an overactive imagination. He had really, actually gone out with Jon, and he was pretty sure it was going to happen again. Jon – God. Jon cared enough to _remind him in the morning, if necessary_. He could have burst.

Despite the fact that it was early on a Sunday, despite the fact that Jon’s office door was firmly shut, Martin threw a furtive glance over his shoulder before performing a giddy little spin in place, both hands pressed firmly over his broad grin. He was living in the Institute; he was perfectly well allowed to act a bit like a lovesick teenager in what was _functionally_ the privacy of his own home.

He had- _Christ,_ he had held Jon’s hand. He still felt electric with it, fizzing with the all-consuming realization that Jon’s hand vanished almost completely under his. It was the roof magnified by a thousand. This was deliberate. This had _intent._ And Jon still hadn’t pulled away.

The searing warmth of Jon’s skin on his stayed with Martin stubbornly as the morning stretched on, delivering intermittent kicks to his heart. He drifted through the empty archives like a ghost, like his memories were the most substantial part of him, blinking back into reality every few minutes as he realized he’d been staring off into space with an absent smile. The talk might have been enlightening, but it had also been far, far too late at night, and he was much too restless these days to make it up in a single night’s sleep. Leaping out of bed at the first glimpse of consciousness to confirm his memories of the night’s events certainly hadn’t helped matters either. His heart may have drummed with elation, but his bones were incongruously leaden.

He put the kettle on in an effort to balance out the buzzing glee and exhaustion through caffeine, but no sooner had he sat down at the break room table to wait than he was jerking awake to the sound of its shrieking, bleary-eyed and stiff-necked from the position he had nodded off in. He was so tired he nearly wasn’t aware of it anymore, and as he heaved himself upright to tend to the kettle, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, his heart gave another contradictory thump at the thought of Jon equally exhausted, thrumming with similar excitement.

It didn’t even occur to him not to make two cups until he was already standing outside Jon’s door, and by that point- well. It would be a waste of a perfectly good cup just to walk away, wouldn’t it? And if it happened to come with the chance to see Jon again, who was he to complain?

“Jon?” he called softly. “You in there? I’ve got-”

He broke off as there was a sudden commotion from inside, followed by what sounded like muffled swearing. There was one final resounding, metallic _clang –_ Jon’s chair? His desk? – and then there was a brief rattling at the handle and the door swung open to reveal Jon.

Martin swallowed. “Um,” he said blankly. It wasn’t fair for Jon to look so soft in his sleep shirt and hopelessly tangled hair, blinking up at Martin like he’d just woken up. “Tea?” He thrust the mug out, and Jon accepted it silently. “Sorry,” Martin added as his tongue untied and his head cleared a bit. He forced his eyes away from the tiny glimpse of Jon’s collarbone under his loose clothes, willing away the incriminating red that saturated his face. “Thought you’d be up by now. I just, uh- tea.”

Jon seemed to be trying to curl his entire frame around the mug, shoulders curving inward and head ducking to inhale its scent. “Thank you,” he said, and _god,_ even his voice was rough with sleep and worn soft.

Martin took a scalding sip to hide whatever humiliating acrobatics his face was doing and shrugged. “Yeah, well. I just needed some caffeine. Couldn’t stop myself nodding off all morning.”

Jon made an odd sort of noise that could generously have been called a cough. “Yes, I, ah… I guessed as much.” At Martin’s confused look, Jon’s lips pressed together into a tight smile and his eyes flicked upward. “I’m assuming you slept on your jumper?”

“Uh, no? No, I slept on the cot, same as-” He rubbed at his face and stilled, feeling heat surge under his fingertips. “ _Oh._ Well, _that’s_ embarrassing.” There was a distinct braided texture pressed into his cheek where he’d presumably laid on his arms at the table. If he could feel them this distinctly, the marks were definitely quite visible.

The poorly concealed amusement in Jon’s eyes only confirmed his suspicions. “My fault for keeping you up so late, I suppose,” he said, with only the barest sliver of actual remorse in his voice.

“Definitely your fault,” Martin agreed, and through the blush he was beginning to think of as a permanent feature, that absurd love-drunk smile began emerging again. It only broadened as Jon smiled back, more hesitant but absolutely radiant. As it turned out, when he wasn’t preoccupied with workplace etiquette violations, Jon could be debilitatingly charming, in an awkward sort of way.

They didn’t speak much for a while afterward, opting instead to play a silent game of flickers of eye contact between sips of tea, like a hopelessly sappy game of chicken.

Martin was fairly sure he lost the game. He was fairly sure he could quite happily continue losing.

* * *

It took a grand total of thirty seconds after he arrived in the archives the next day for Tim to start giving Martin dangerously curious looks.

“Good day, Martin?” Tim asked cheerfully as Martin returned to the archives with a spare mug in hand for Sasha, having already stopped by Jon’s office with another cup. His expression was near predatory and entirely at odds with his deliberately relaxed pose.

It was an effort to maintain a regular level of cheer as he replied, “Not bad, yeah,” and settled back at his desk with every intention of pretending to work until the residual glee subsided a bit.

_Thank you, Martin,_ Jon had said as he took the tea from Martin’s outstretched hands, just like he always did, and _then_ he had added, _You wouldn’t happen to be free again this Saturday, would you?_ He’d sounded casual as anything, but he’d flicked a pen around in his free hand almost in time with the lurching of Martin’s heart, and Martin hadn’t even been able to find his voice as he nodded fervently.

“Leave off, Tim,” Sasha said fondly. Her expression, when Martin glanced up to give her a grateful smile, was appraising and a bit too knowledgeable. He averted his eyes again quickly as she continued, “Although, I would like to know if you two have some sort of Freaky Friday situation going on. I’ve only ever seen Tim so chipper in the mornings.”

“That would be the coffee,” Tim informed her with a salute of his Styrofoam cup, mercifully affording Martin a moment to melt into his desk. “I keep telling you, Sash, a cup or three of this stuff in the morning works miracles. _Also._ I can’t believe you would accuse us of something so thematically tasteless as Freaky Friday-ing on a _Monday._ Do you really think that little of us?”

Sasha laughed. “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t think Freaky Friday gave people much of a say over whether their body-swap timing was _thematically appropriate_.”

“Fair point. Unless Martin’s turned into a coffee drinker on us, though…” Tim mused, audibly grinning. “I guess it’s something else that’s got him so cheerful. Care to share, mate?”

With a great deal of force, Martin tamped his blush down, fixed Tim with a blandly pleasant look, and said, “Just got a good night’s sleep, I guess."

One of Tim’s eyebrows rose as he gave a slow nod, looking for all the world like Martin had just divulged a great secret. “Glad to hear it.”

Martin nodded, probably a bit too enthusiastically to pass as casual. _Christ,_ he was normally a good liar. If he weren’t already clutching a steaming mug like a lifeline, that would have been his cue to flee as unobtrusively to the break room as possible until he could speak without blowing his cover. “Just a really good night’s sleep, you know?” he said, aware that he was verging on babbling but unable to quell the flow. “Wake up feeling refreshed, all that? It’s got something to do with sleep cycles and circadian rhythms, I think, I read an article on that the other day. You’re meant to wake up on a ninety-minute mark, I think, or maybe thirty…”

With a sinking feeling, Martin glanced back at Tim and found him looking absurdly pleased as he nodded along to Martin’s blatant lies attentively. “Well, that’s great,” Tim said, in a tone that suggested he would really have liked to be winking. “Really happy for you. Fantastic.” He turned to his desk and, seemingly at random, picked up a sheaf of papers with great enthusiasm, then added, “Now, as much as I’d love to pick your brain about… restful sleeping techniques, I’ll leave you be. We’ve got some important ghost research to do. Right, Sash?”

The implied _for now_ hung in the air heavy as a storm cloud.

Sasha rolled her eyes. Martin was fairly sure the hand she had to her face was concealing a smile. “Right,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Martin spent a good long while glaring at the back of Tim’s head as he worked, equal parts gleeful and worried that his friends were a bit too perceptive.

He made a point of staying out of Jon’s office for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t that he was _avoiding_ Jon, exactly, but work did come a bit easier when Martin wasn’t constantly busy coming off the high of remembering that he was actually allowed to look at Jon the way he wanted now, and Jon might even look _back._

Jon was, in fact, looking back at him now, but that was more than alright, because the workday was over and Martin could afford to melt into a puddle on the break room floor. Walking from the fridge to the microwave, thankfully, wasn’t a task that required great presence of mind.

Jon had situated himself on the sofa with a laptop, ostensibly working, but the weight of his eyes was heavy on Martin’s back as he started the microwave. “You know,” Martin said lightly over its hum, “Officially, work’s been over for at least two hours. You should talk to Elias about getting paid for overtime.”

“Yes, yes.” Jon frowned at his screen, clearly having registered nothing but the general tone of Martin’s words. “Just one report to finish, and then I can file away all that nonsense with the cold spots in that man’s hallway. It’s not my fault he doesn’t know how to work a thermostat.”

Martin chuckled at the sheer vitriol in Jon’s voice. “You’re quite a skeptic, for someone who works in an institute that studies paranormal activities. What if there _is_ a ghost in his house?”

Jon huffed dismissively and glared even harder at his laptop. A few months ago, it might have stung. “I’m afraid if _that_ was the case, we might have had more difficulties digitizing this file. Besides, he never even mentioned a ghost. Just ominous cold spots that have it out for him. It’s absurd.”

“Yeah, okay,” Martin allowed. The statement had been a bit ridiculous. “I’m just saying, we personally met a woman made of worms. Ghosts aren’t really that far-fetched, if you think about it.”

The frown on Jon’s face deepened, eyes darkening just slightly as he finally looked up at Martin. “I _don’t_ believe in ghosts,” he said firmly. “That’s a baseless extrapolation. Prentiss’s existence doesn’t imply the existence of ghosts, or of any other -” The microwave’s shrill beeping cut him off, and Martin could have sworn his expression was one of relief.

“Smells good,” Jon said very casually, and if leaving his clause unfinished hadn’t been so uncharacteristic, Martin might have called him out on it. “What is it?”

“Just some rice and veg. Tim’s lunch.” Martin watched as the apprehension, or whatever it had been, faded from Jon’s face, replaced with a mildly affronted expression. He laughed. “Don’t worry, he left it for me. Really, Jon, I wouldn’t just eat it.”

Jon grumbled something indistinct but set his laptop aside as Martin sat down beside him. That ever-present spark of fondness in Martin’s chest flared a little brighter at the gesture.

“You can have some, if you like,” Martin said, offering up his spoon. He could make do with just a fork. “I’m sure Tim wouldn’t mind, and I certainly don’t.”

It was a bit of an awkward balancing act on the sofa, but the strange intimacy of eating from one bowl in an otherwise empty room was well worth it. He wondered if Jon felt it too, like tiny shocks of static electricity zinging between them whenever they went in for a bite at the same time or their eyes happened to meet on a furtive glance.

After a while, he worked up the nerve to say, “Did you talk to Tim at all today?”

Jon paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “No. I didn’t have any new cases to tell him about, and I suppose he left before I came out of the office.”

Martin resisted pointing out that maybe, just _maybe,_ that was a sign Jon was staying in the office too long. For today it was a good thing, if only so Jon didn’t have to see Tim’s poorly concealed delight and get disappointed in Martin’s inability to keep anything to himself.

Absently, sifting through the bowl to pick out a bit of carrot, Jon added, “Why? Is something the matter with him?”

“Oh, just- just wondering. He was, uh, wearing a really outrageous Hawaiian shirt. You would have hated it.”

Jon made a small noise of disapproval. “I’m sure. It’s hardly proper work attire.”

Tim had, in fact, been wearing nothing of the sort, but his knowing grin had been about as lurid as his beloved flowery shirts, and Martin chalked it up to about the same thing. He shrugged, glad that Jon’s attention was on the food rather than him as his face heated. “Lucky you didn’t see him, then.”

It might have been optimistic to call the tiny twitch of Jon’s lips a smile, but Martin did so anyway. If the last few days had taught him anything, it was that a bit of optimism couldn’t go amiss.

The bowl was nearly empty by the time Jon heaved a sigh, balanced his spoon precariously on the edge, and said, “Well, I’d better be heading back.” He picked up his laptop and stood, pausing once he was upright. “Thank you, Martin. For sharing your dinner with me and… for the company.”

“Anytime.” Martin smiled, a bit of a pang going through him as Jon turned to leave. He wasn’t quite sure where he found the nerve, but before he had a chance to properly think about it, he blurted, “Wait!”

Jon stopped and looked back, slightly wary. “Yes?”

_I want you to stay,_ Martin didn’t say. _I want to eat from the same Tupperware as you every night._ “Um. I- if you like, we can have a round of cards first? It’s, ah, been a while.”

“Oh.” This time, Martin was sure it was a smile that made Jon’s eyes go slightly soft at the corners (and Martin’s heart go soft at the center). Jon threw a single glance over his shoulder, as if looking through the wall to the piles of work waiting in his office, and shrugged. “Yes, why not.”

Martin had to bite his lip to keep his face from splitting in two through the sheer force of his smile. “Right, brilliant! I’ve got them just over- ah. Here we are.”

Jon raised an eyebrow as Martin fetched the deck from the countertop and began to shuffle. “Came prepared, did you?”

“Always prepared.” This was patently false; he’d left them there after a more ill-fated attempt to rope Jon into a game a while ago, but if he seemed prepared for it he certainly wasn’t going to complain. He met Jon’s eye with a grin as he shuffled, and Jon rolled his eyes in response.

“Alright, give them here.” Their fingertips brushed as Martin handed over the cards, and he had to suppress a shiver as he watched Jon deal them. He’d _held_ that hand, deftly sorting cards into two neat piles, wrist flicking elegantly with each motion. He was willing to make it his life’s mission to do so again. Jon had such lovely hands.

“Thank you,” Martin mumbled as he scooped his cards up. Because he was _not_ completely hopeless, he did not imagine that the heat of Jon’s palms still lingered on the cards. It was a close thing, though.

“Twos,” Jon declared.

“Oi- I thought the person who doesn’t deal starts?”

“I always deal.” Jon’s scowl looked more perfunctory than anything, but he gestured to Martin. “Fine, go on.”

Martin couldn’t resist. “Alright, then. Got any twos?”

“Now _hold on,”_ Jon started, indignant, before he glanced upwards and deflated at the look on Martin’s face. “Oh, you- You’re having me on.”

“Yeah.” Martin grinned. “Haven’t even got any twos. Should’ve seen the look on your face, though.”

Jon’s face twisted into what could only be described as a pout, and Martin’s heart did something spasmodic and precarious in his chest.

“I should have you fired,” Jon grumbled. He sorted through his cards sullenly for a moment, and then his eyes blew wide. “Oh– oh, Martin, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to- to trivialize-”

“Whoa, hey.” Martin held up his hands placatingly, nearly revealed all his cards in the process, and settled for gesturing with only his left hand. “I didn’t think you were _serious,_ Jon. It’s fine, you’re fine.”

Only the edge of alarm faded from Jon’s eyes. His jaw was still clenched tight. “It’s _not_ fine if you genuinely believe you’re on the verge of being fired constantly.”

Martin sighed heavily. He’d really dug his own grave with that one. “You’re allowed to make a joke, Jon, really. The thing about the firing isn’t your fault, it’s-” Well. Workplace relationship aside, a falsified CV was still grounds for termination. Martin bit his tongue and changed tacks. “We talked about this, right? Trust?”

“Trust,” Jon repeated, wary. “Alright. If you’re sure. I apologize for overreacting.”

“I am sure,” Martin said firmly. “And you don’t need to apologize. What you _do_ need to do is give me your fives.”

Jon laughed, a single short sound that seemed to surprise him, and gave Martin one of his cards.

As luck would have it, it was the five of hearts.

Before Jon really did return to his office, two decisive victories and a bit of a gloat later, he hesitated again. Martin squirmed slightly under his considering gaze, still slightly flustered from the glee of watching Jon preen over the rounds he had won.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jon said, and did not seem inclined to elaborate further. His fingertips drummed lightly on the edge of the table.

Martin raised an eyebrow. “About?”

Jon took a long breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Seemingly with difficulty, he said, “About the sandwich shop down the road. Whether you’d like to go there on Saturday, particularly.”

Distantly, Martin wondered if lungs could spontaneously puncture. All the air in his system seemed to have escaped him somehow. He was slightly breathless as he said, “Yeah, wherever you like! I, um, I chose last time, so it only seems fair.”

Christ, he’d thought it was hard to keep his emotions in check when he was the one asking Jon out. There was a distinct possibility he would have to write some very sappy poetry to air out all the feelings Jon taking initiative, wanting to _try again_ enough to take initiative, was generating.

In fact, Jon looked rather pleased himself. “Good. Alright then. I suppose I’ll… see you in the morning.”

“Looking forward to it,” Martin said, just on the far-flung hope that he could make Jon blush. He was rewarded.

* * *

“All I’m saying,” Tim said, sounding unfairly reasonable for someone actively trying to undermine Martin’s sanity, “is that I’ve really shown _admirable_ restraint here the last few days, and maybe you could at _least_ give me a hint whether it’s something to do with you-know-who that’s got you all smiley.”

‘Wha- I’m not _smiley!”_ Martin protested. His fingers flexed on the fabric of his trousers; reaching up to cover his mouth would only fuel Tim more. “I’m smiling a perfectly normal amount!”

“Right. Not trying to argue with that, _but.”_ Tim’s smile was devilish. “Despite my best efforts, the archives are a below-average smile zone. I think Jon singlehandedly tanks our score. For someone doing paperwork all day, you are distinctly smiley.” He pointed an accusing finger at Martin, who decided the best course of action was to look busy and scribbled a senseless note in the margins of the nearest document.

“Come off it, Tim. You’re just seeing what you want to see.”

“Damn right I am.” Tim tipped his chair back to a truly precarious degree, kicking his legs up on his desk. “I mean, I’m right, definitely, but I’m looking forward to collecting my ten pounds, too.”

“You’re going to give yourself a concussion,” Martin said absently before his mind caught up with Tim’s words. “Wait. You’re not saying you bet on us, are you?”

Tim’s nonchalant shrug very nearly sent his chair toppling past the point of no return.

Martin gaped. Jon could never, ever find out about this. “You’re betting on if something’s gonna happen with me and Jon? _Tim!”_

“Not if,” Tim corrected. He didn’t even have the good grace to look guilty. _“When.”_

Right as Martin was about to turn in his chair and beg Sasha for some support, the door creaked open and his eyes landed on Jon instead. Tim’s face could not more clearly have expressed his delight.

“Good morning,” Jon said stiffly. He glanced up at the clock on the wall and frowned. “Ah. Afternoon, rather. Surely you’re all aware of the statement one Miss Schmidt made this morning regarding her experiences in Epping forest.” He raised one hand to rub at his temple and seemed to suppress a sigh. “I’ve sent you all the digital file of her statement, which will need to be transcribed and corroborated as per usual. Tim, I would ask that you pay particular attention to mentions of her sister. Sasha, there may be a record of Miss Schmidt’s stay in hotel registers in the area. And Martin…” Jon trailed off as their eyes met, seemingly lost for useful contributions Martin could provide.

_Some things never change,_ Martin thought ruefully.

“You might look into local folk tales and compare them to her experiences,” Jon finished with obvious relief. He appeared to cast about for anything else to say and, when he found nothing, nodded to the room at large and turned on his heel.

Jon wasn’t a large man, but his presence took up a great deal of space. The doorway looked quite empty when he was no longer standing in it.

“See,” Tim said solemnly. “Smiley.”

Martin gave him a dismayed look and found that he did in fact have to wipe away a faint smile to do so. 

* * *

Everything was much harder when it wasn’t impulsive and adrenaline-driven, Martin found as he hovered outside Jon’s door with a mug. It was too late in the afternoon for tea, really, but he needed a reason to go in and Jon worked long enough hours that the caffeine would likely do him good anyway.

That was what Martin told himself as he pushed the door open with a litany of well-rehearsed words running through his head, reaching for whatever confidence had possessed him that night to ask Jon in the first place. He knew the answer now; everything beyond that should be easy. Apparently not.

“Um. I was thinking eight?” he said as he set the mug down, and immediately cringed at himself. Leave it to him to start his sales pitch from the end.

Jon looked up from a document nearly entirely obscured with notes and furrowed his brow. “Eight?”

Below the edge of the desk, out of Jon’s line of sight, Martin wrung his hands together. “Yeah,” he said, more calmly than he felt. “For tomorrow night, if that works for you? If not, that’s fine, I just thought we should establish a time, you know.”

“Oh.” Something twisted and soured vaguely in Jon’s expression, and Martin’s stomach echoed the sentiment. In a tone that suggested he was picking his way through a verbal minefield, Jon said, “Yes, that’s very sensible. Eight would be fine.”

Martin grimaced. He made an aborted little move away from the desk, ready to flee, then changed his mind midway through the motion and turned back. Communication was important, wasn’t it? Might have spared them a lot of trouble the first time around. “Are you sure?” he forced out, voice wavering unpleasantly. “Just- you don’t sound too happy about that, is all.”

Jon, predictably, gave an indignant frown. “I do,” he retorted, and Martin could have sworn he saw Jon’s entire frame tense before he took a breath and visibly forced himself to relax in a motion that looked completely unnatural. The frown stayed firmly in place.

“Eight is good,” Jon said firmly. “But there is something I should address. Martin, I’ve made a mistake.”

Martin’s heart stopped. He stopped fidgeting, stopped shifting his weight, stilling completely as a pulse of cold, numbing alarm ran through his veins.

“I should have mentioned this earlier,” Jon went on, undeterred. “When I asked after your availability earlier this week, I should never have done so during work hours, even if it was early in the morning. That goes directly against what we discussed, and I’m sorry for setting that precedent. It was highly inappropriate of me.”

Martin blinked. The wave of relief that washed over him as he processed Jon’s words was almost as paralyzing as the initial shock. “You… what?”

Jon ducked his head as if in shame. “I wasn’t thinking,” he confessed, and took a long breath before glancing back up at Martin with an unreadable expression. “I hope… I hope this doesn’t violate the trust you agreed to place in me. If it does, however, I understand completely.”

Before he had a chance to quell it, a breathy laugh escaped Martin. “It doesn’t,” he said, with a feeling like catching his breath. “Not at all. Uh, honestly? I guess yours had, but _my_ workday hadn’t even started yet. I’m not sure if you were technically on the clock.”

“Oh.”

The vaguely bewildered expression on Jon’s face made Martin’s lips tug up into a smile. He was on stable enough footing again now to say with a lightly teasing note, “That’s what happens when you work such odd hours, I suppose. Causes all sorts of confusion.” He paused. “Oh. I… I guess I did just break the work hours rule then, though. Um. Unless I can retroactively call this my lunch break.”

Jon appeared to be having a difficult time deciding between amusement and disapproval. The result was rather adorable; his lips pressed tightly together and quivered slightly at the corners, and one of his brows rose in an elegant arch. “It’s nearly four,” he said eventually, voice equally as conflicted as his expression.

Martin rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. “Well. A late lunch. It happens, you know?”

Jon huffed a laugh and seemed to settle on amusement. One of his hands found the mug Martin had placed on his desk and cupped it almost fondly. Martin’s heart swelled. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

* * *

It wasn’t as if a switch had been flipped, or any such wishful nonsense. There was no magical transformation facilitated by the power of love, no matter how poetic it might have been, and the atmosphere remained stilted and slightly awkward.

There was, however, tentative conversation as they walked down the street the following night. Martin had learned his lesson and only gave Jon’s hand a wistful glance where it swung at his side instead of reaching for it, resolving to save that particular endeavor for a more controlled environment.

“I’d like to propose an embargo on work talk,” Jon said as they neared their destination, and if Martin hadn’t already been on the verge of vibrating out of his skin, the very idea that Jon was actively trying to improve on their last date might have knocked his feet out from under him. As it was, he stumbled a bit but managed to keep his footing; he’d always had a tendency to manifest his metaphors a bit too literally.

Martin nodded. “Good idea. I don’t really want to talk about the place I’ve spent every waking hour of the last… God, eight weeks? Something like that? I’ve had quite enough of it, really.”

“Ten, I think.”

“Ugh, really? Yeah, definitely no work talk then. We could both do with a break from that. I don’t even remember the last time I… when was the last time you properly left the Institute, Jon? Lunch doesn’t count,” he said as Jon opened his mouth to say something that would probably start with _as a matter of fact._

Jon frowned and seemed to reconsider, and Martin had to curb the smug grin that tried to creep onto his face. Then, triumphantly, Jon said, “ _Actually,_ I left just the other weekend.”

_Actually_ was close enough to _as a matter of fact,_ Martin thought with no small amount of amusement. “Did you do something nice?”

They rounded a corner, and in the turn, Martin’s shoulder brushed against Jon’s. The resultant burst of warmth blended strangely with the twist of nerves in his gut as Jon said, “Yes, I spent the afternoon with Georgie. You called her for a case, if I remember.”

“I remember,” Martin said weakly. It would have taken a Herculean feat to forget that particular conversation. He sent out a silent, fervent plea into the night that Georgie had been merciful and not mentioned whatever he had done to make his feelings so obvious, even if it was a moot point now. “How is she?”

“Doing well, I think.” Jon paused for a moment, and when Martin glanced over to him there was an uncharacteristically fond smile blooming on his face. He seemed to consider something for a moment, then allowed the smile full rein over his face. “So is her cat.”

After such a long time watching Jon fondly from a distance, Martin might have thought he was past the point of dissolving into vaguely human-shaped puddles whenever Jon did something charming. Jon spent the next half hour decisively proving him wrong.

There were _photos._ Any apprehension Martin might have felt toward Georgie and her frighteningly good insights melted into eternal gratitude; some of the pictures had clearly not been taken by Jon, who featured front and center with an explosively furry cat on his lap and a heart-wrenchingly soft look on his face. Martin was going to send Georgie a very effusive thank-you note and possibly an entire edible arrangement.

Dinner passed in a blur; Martin’s head swam with affection and relief and an assortment of vaguely cat-related facts that Jon shared with great enthusiasm and gravitas, and by the time they finished their meals and started the walk back, he was nearly light-headed with the thrill of it.

The walk wasn’t particularly long, but Jon, whose strides were normally quick and purposeful, didn’t seem to be in any hurry. A tinge of their old awkwardness seeped back into the air between them as they walked, the conversation stalled by the sudden shock of the cold air and the growing realization that nothing had gone wrong yet, but it was more heavy than stifling. Martin could still breathe. There was no awful weight pressing down on his lungs.

Martin spent a long moment considering, achingly aware of the pounding of his own heart. He was so close to closing off a very pleasant evening; it would be dreadful to make a misstep so close to the end of the night.

In the end, impulse won out again. Martin had just shoved his hands deep in his pockets when there was a soft exhale beside him, like the faintest whisper of a laugh, and he looked over to see Jon’s head tilted up to the sky. “Look,” Jon said, and pointed. “You can see Orion.”

Silently, Martin reached over and slipped his hand into Jon’s.

It took a moment for their hands to properly align enough to thread their fingers together, but when it was done, Jon didn’t let go all the way to the Institute.

“I had a nice time,” Jon said eventually, when Martin was finally forced to release his hand at the office door. This time there was no poorly repressed mourning in his eyes, even if there was a hint of shyness.

Martin beamed. No point hiding it. “Me too.”

“I’d like to do this again,” Jon said, all in a rush. “If you’re… amenable, I- As strange as our situation is at the moment, I’d like to continue down this path, in as normal a capacity as possible.”

Martin had to brace a hand against the wall. Slightly choked, he said, “Yeah, Jon. I’m… that sounds amazing. I’d love to.”

Jon smiled, effortlessly knocking the wind from Martin’s lungs once again. “Wonderful,” he said, and trailed a hand down the doorframe. “Thank you for dinner, Martin. Good night.”

“Good night, Jon,” Martin whispered. He stood staring at the door long after it shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Honestly, I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but I hope you liked it anyway!! I'm still having so much fun writing this story, and I can't thank you all enough for how lovely you've been :)   
> Next chapter will be up in two weeks, on December 3rd (the passage of time really is something, huh??), and if all goes according to plan it's going to include a scene I've been looking forward to for ages. I'm very excited. 
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: None!


	19. Hold You Like You're Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of important discussions takes place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Projection City, population: me. Enjoy your stay!
> 
> This chapter's title is from Agnes by Glass Animals, because at this point you're basically getting a guided tour of the deepest recesses of my Spotify library. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! :)

“Okay,” Georgie said eventually. “Out with it.”

Jon looked up, startled, his hand still sunk deep in the Admiral’s fur. He must have tensed, because the Admiral gave a lethargic blink, stretched, and resettled in Jon’s lap with a reproachful look. Jon offered him an apologetic scratch behind the ear. “Out with what?”

Georgie raised a single eyebrow. “You’re basically using my cat as a stress ball, Sims.”

“Our cat,” Jon muttered automatically, deliberately lightening the pressure of his hand on the Admiral’s scruff.

“My cat.” Georgie’s ankle pushed lightly against Jon’s side. He was sitting on the floor leaning against her sofa, which unfortunately put him within excellent kicking range from her perch. With the cat dozing on his legs, it wasn’t as if he could move out of reach. “I have full custody. You’ve just got visitation rights because I like you. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to use my mind reading powers on you?”

Jon huffed a laugh, careful not to jolt the Admiral this time. “You’re welcome to give the mind reading a try. I’m afraid there’s nothing interesting to find.”

The look on Georgie’s face was a challenge, and with a sinking feeling Jon became aware that he was in trouble. He’d seen the same expression on her face dozens of times in uni, right before she took a bite of far-too-spicy food or said _try me_ or dyed her hair an extravagant color.

“Alright,” she said, sounding far too cocky for someone who had just promised to perform a humanly impossible feat. She pointed her palms at his head and splayed her fingers as if to extract his thoughts through her fingertips, and Jon couldn’t help a smile. “I’m sensing… conflict. Self-inflicted. You’re… hm.” She pursed her lips as if deep in thought. “You’re having a social interaction you don’t know how to deal with. There's something you can't figure out how to feel about, so you've come to me for my sage advice.”

Something constricted sharply in Jon’s chest. He carefully arranged his face into something approaching neutrality and forced himself not to curl his fingers too tightly into the Admiral’s fur.

Georgie gave him an expectant look verging on smugness. “Well? How was that?”

“I-” Jon swallowed tightly around the dryness in his throat. “Not- not bad. How, uh…”

“Well,” Georgie said, in a tone better suited to a detective about to do a parlor scene. She started counting off on her fingers. “You’re _here,_ for a start. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and of course that’s usually a perfectly normal time for people to visit, but we both know you like to spend your Sunday afternoons doing all the things you’ve convinced yourself can’t wait till Monday.”

There was, in fact, a substantial pile of discredited statements growing steadily taller on Jon’s desk, and he had spent at least two hours trying to make a dent in them before, to his dismay, he had found that his heart wasn’t in it. He’d been far too focused on the things his heart _was_ in. In the absence of a protest, he put on a scowl. Judging by the exaggerated pity on Georgie’s face, she was none too impressed.

She tapped on a second finger, somehow managing to make the motion accusing. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got friends at work now – which, good on you, by the way – but you’re here talking to me instead of them, so it’s probably got something to do with them.”

Jon couldn’t quite control his frown that time. “They’re fine,” he said, possibly a bit too sharply. “They haven’t done anything.”

Georgie’s ankle pressed into Jon’s side again, this time more grounding than admonishing. Her voice was teasing, but not sharp. “I said self-inflicted, didn’t I?” When Jon didn’t reply with anything more coherent than a grumble, she sighed. “Plus, Jon. You’re forgetting I’ve watched you do this kind of thing for _years._ I know what it looks like when you can’t figure out how to feel about something. So what’s happening?”

“Nothing’s happening,” Jon said, as if he hadn’t already tried to speak this idea into existence without success. Of course something was happening. He had woken up that morning wrapped in thick wool and humming with the warmth of more than the jumper; that could hardly be called nothing. Nor could the sense of looming dread that had plagued him since that morning, leaving him restless and altogether too distracted to finish any work effectively. At least he didn’t feel quite as silly telling this lie to Georgie as he had alone in his office with only a dubious audience of tape recorders and statements for company. He cast about for something more productive to say and eventually landed on, “Things are good, actually.” Decidedly more honest, but no less difficult to believe.

Georgie hummed. “Okay, I’m glad to hear that, but you do seem pretty tense for someone trying to convince me everything’s going his way.”

“I’m not _tense,”_ Jon muttered. In his lap, the Admiral gave a spectacularly timed huff as if in argument, and Jon obligingly resumed petting his back even as he angled a reproachful glare downwards.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it.” Gently, one of Georgie’s hands landed on Jon’s head and stroked through his hair once before retreating. Jon sagged slightly into the touch and tried not to draw any direct comparisons to the cat purring in his lap. “But I kind of get the sense you might want to. Could be cathartic, you know?”

_Catharsis_ had been one of Georgie’s favorite words for as long as Jon could remember. She’d spent much of their time at Oxford after they met chasing that sense of emotional release; never quite reckless, but certainly some degree of thrill-seeking. The practice had always very much been a mystery to him, but teetering on the edge of the proverbial cliff he stood on now, there was perhaps some appeal to the idea of braving the fall and puncturing the swelling pressure inside him.

“Okay,” he said after a long pause. “Yeah, okay. I… You remember when we were a couple?”

When he craned his neck to look at her, Georgie was smiling a bit, visibly bewildered. There was the edge of a laugh in her voice as she said, “Uh, yes? Vividly?”

“Right,” Jon said. His hands strayed from the Admiral’s fur of their own accord and twisted together in his lap. “Well. I was rather hoping that if I came to see you, I’d remember how I dealt with those feelings back then.”

“Jon,” Georgie said slowly, shuffling around on the sofa to properly face him, eyes widening. “Are you saying…”

The precipice yawned before him, vast and magnetic. Jon took a deep breath and let himself tip over the edge, embracing the rush of vertigo as he said, “I went on a date with Martin.”

Georgie made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a shriek. She muffled the latter half of it behind her hands, and through her fingers Jon could see fragments of a wild grin. He had to place one of his hands flat on the floor to anchor himself, countering the swooping sensation of falling that curled in the pit of his stomach.

“Two, actually,” he said, emboldened by the adrenaline of freefall. If it put that kind of look on Georgie’s face, his situation couldn’t be so bad. “Uh. One of them was bad, but… two dates.”

It took a moment for the sounds of her glee to trail off, but eventually Georgie sobered enough to say, “Wow. I mean- _wow,_ Jon. That’s amazing! He seemed really, really nice.”

“He is.” It came out nearly as a whisper, soaked in disbelief. “He’s-” He shook his head, lost for words.

“So,” Georgie said, settling down again as her enthusiasm waned. Her next words sounded like someone probing for the edges of a bruise. “Is the bad date why you’re here?”

Jon nearly laughed. “That would make more sense, wouldn’t it,” he said, just slightly unhinged. Was that what catharsis did for Georgie? He wasn’t sure if he liked it. “No, uh- no. Quite the opposite, actually.” He sighed and ducked his head, a small swell of embarrassment coming over him. “No, I’m here because one of them was… good.”

“Oh.” Georgie’s smile was audible. “Oh, _Jon.”_

“Now, don’t- don’t go blowing this out of proportion,” he added quickly, with a frantic glance over his shoulder. “Don’t- I can _see_ what you want to say, Georgie, and I forbid you from saying it. If we’re going to have this conversation, I’m _banning_ that word.”

“What word?” Georgie said, pleasantly and with a truly wicked grin.

“I’m _not_ saying it.”

“Of course you’re not.” Jon muffled a groan at her tone and twisted to bury his face in the sofa cushions as she said, smugly, “So _that’s_ why you’re here.”

Muffled against the fabric, Jon grumbled, “I regret it already.”

“I’m sure you do,” Georgie replied placidly. “So, what – it went _too_ well, is that it?”

Jon breathed a sigh deep into the sofa, making an effort to shove all his troublesome emotions out of his system with it before daring to look back up at Georgie. His glasses dug awkwardly into his temple as he leaned his head sideways. When staring helplessly at her didn’t yield any results except a look of mild concern tinged with amusement, he buried his face in his hands. “I feel so- it feels too easy, Georgie. I’m his direct superior, I- I should be _resisting_ this. I should- I tried to talk him out of it, you know, and he was just so damn reasonable about it! He was supposed to file a complaint with HR, not find a way to make it work.”

Charitably, from behind his hands, Jon decided that the sound Georgie made in response was a cough and not a strangled laugh.

“Right,” she said. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but… the problem is that Martin’s being too kind and respectful of your boundaries?”

_“Yes,”_ Jon said emphatically, letting his hands drop from his face and thump down on the sofa beside Georgie’s legs. “He’s making it far too easy to let my- my emotions take precedence. I can’t be feeling this way in a place of business. It’s unreasonable!” His voice rose toward the end of this outburst, and the Admiral shifted his weight on Jon’s lap and made a displeased sound of protest. “Sorry, Admiral,” Jon tacked on, more than a little sheepishly.

“To be fair, your place of business also regularly deals with ghosts and, like, haunted wardrobes and things. I think they’ve probably seen worse than a bit of lo-” Jon glared at her sternly enough that she grinned and broke off, raising her hands in surrender. “Right, okay! I know!” Her hand lowered and delivered a pat to his shoulder that was probably meant to be reassuring. “I don’t know what to tell you. If you want me to talk you out of this, you’re going to have to make a more compelling case than that.”

Something strange welled up inside Jon, the taste of it like desperation but sweeter. He made no effort to rein it in as it crawled up his throat and spilled out of him in torrents. “I _can’t,”_ he insisted. “That’s the problem!”

Georgie took his hand where it lay on the sofa and squeezed it. “Jon,” she said seriously. “Look at me. Do you want to date him?”

The sigh Jon heaved might have felt like a sob if there had been a bit more weight behind it. Throat too tight to speak, he nodded.

“There you go.” Georgie’s voice was gentle. “Stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and just… trust him, you know? That’s what you had to do when we were together, too.”

_Trust._ Shock wiped the scalding despair bubbling up in his chest abruptly clean, leaving him entirely blank. That was the entire basis of this thing, wasn’t it? Martin had asked for his trust that night in the break room, like that was all there was to it. Evidently he and Georgie spoke a common tongue that was foreign to him, if they could so clearly see what had Jon twisting and stumbling and careening through an obstacle course of his own making.

“I like him,” he said through lips that had gone a bit numb, eyes fervently tracking Georgie’s reaction.

There was no recrimination or denial. Of course there wasn’t; it was Georgie, who was watching him quietly with something akin to pride. Out loud, the words sounded both monumental and not nearly as imposing as they had in his head. They were what they were. A truth. Jon had always liked truths.

Georgie’s smile was broad and gleeful. “You are going to have _fun_ with this,” she said with enough confidence that Jon couldn’t have disputed her if he wanted to. She pointed a finger at him. “That’s allowed, you hear me? This is wonderful, and you’re going to have fun with it.”

Jon huffed indignantly even as tension he hadn’t realized he was holding began to drain from his shoulders. “I do have fun occasionally, thank you.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Of course you do. Fun like… sending pictures of you and our cat to your boyfriend?”

“So you admit I have partial ownership,” Jon said smugly, then froze. “Wait. No, no- He’s not- _Georgie-”_

There was no guilt at all in her smile. “Yes?”

Jon scowled. “I have a new word I’d like to ban.”

She laughed and, against his better judgment, so did Jon. He didn’t resist when she leaned down to fish his phone out of his pocket, although he did frown when she opened his messages without a hitch.

“Why do you know my passcode?”

Georgie shrugged. “You haven’t changed it since Oxford.”

“That’s not- I don’t remember telling it to you back then either.”

“Smile!”

In the first picture, Jon looked mildly distressed, which he found rather fitting and Georgie found very funny. There were several others, all of which featured slightly more normal expressions and, though Jon was loath to admit it, more of him than the cat. With Georgie leaning over his shoulder, he sent them without allowing himself much time for hesitation. _Courtesy of Georgie,_ he wrote underneath.

Then, after a moment, he added, _I realize our situation doesn’t allow for much normalcy. However, I believe it is standard to send a follow-up message the day after a date._ This one was harder to send, but he pressed on. _I had a nice time last night and would like to do it again. Thank you for an enjoyable evening. Jon._

Georgie’s definition of fun did have its merits, Jon admitted to himself later that day with a begrudging smile. Mild mortification aside, it _was_ well worth it to see Martin look up as soon as he entered the break room, turn bright red, and visibly go through several stages of indecision before he said, “Thanks for the pictures,” and nearly tipped over his chair as he fled the room.

Jon watched him go with a smile.

* * *

Martin made no attempt to reach for Jon’s hand on their lunch break, for which Jon was infinitely grateful. There had been a moment where he eyed Martin’s hand swinging at his side with some interest, but the memory of how thoroughly he had been incapacitated with those residual feelings of warmth and security that weekend was enough to dissuade him. There was still work to be done when they returned, after all. It wouldn’t do to spend the remainder of the day unraveling in his office like he was a jumper that had had just the wrong thread pulled.

Jon had never been known for his ability to leave well enough alone, though, so as they made a turn around the park on their way back, he cleared his throat and said with not nearly as much nonchalance as he would have liked, “I missed the walks, you know.”

The way Martin’s head whipped around to face him, eyes alight, Jon might have thought he had said something far more shocking.

“Yeah?”

Heart giving an audible _thud_ , Jon said, “I did, yes. It’s nice to stretch my legs, and…” He glanced furtively to the side, developing a sudden and acute interest in a cluster of dandelions blooming on the side of the path. “It’s been a while since we went out for lunch. I suppose I got used to it.”

Focused as he was on the scenery, Jon heard more than saw Martin’s steps take on an uneven quality as he stumbled, shoe scraping loudly on the pavement. His voice was equally as unsteady as his footing as he said, “Right, right, uh, sorry about that! That’s… my fault.” He fixed Jon with a slightly pained look. “I just- at first it felt a bit too… date-y? And, and then by the time I thought it might have been okay, which is to say the last four days or so because, heh, honestly I wasn’t sure you’d want to keep doing this until Saturday, we always had enough leftovers and all that, and-”

“Martin,” Jon interrupted, vaguely alarmed at the torrent of anxieties spilling from Martin’s mouth. “I- I’m certainly not blaming you. I’m just as much at fault. I only mean to say that- I enjoy your company.”

A sound like a breathless laugh escaped Martin. “Yeah, I- obviously, I enjoy yours too. Um. Thanks, Jon.”

Jon ducked his head with a smile, telling himself halfheartedly that it was the sun on the nape of his neck that left him saturated with warmth. He only had to concern himself with this illusion for a moment; seconds later, the heat dissipated under a cool rush of realization as Martin’s words belatedly caught up with him. He coughed, and his voice came out slightly strangled. “Do you- when you said it felt too much like a, uh.”

“Oh.” When Jon glanced over surreptitiously, Martin had gone quite red. He rubbed at the back of his neck as he said, “Yeah, I, um. Just the whole process of, you know, going out and getting a meal with someone, right? Especially someone you’re. Uh.”

“Right,” Jon said, trying not to pay the intense look of relief on Martin’s face at being cut off too much mind. He was a bit relieved he didn’t have to hear the end of that sentence himself; there was a part of him he had only recently started discovering which seemed fragile and liable to dissolve like candy floss in water at the slightest sign of affection, and for research purposes, he supposed it would be best kept intact. One of his hands twisted idly at the hem of his coat. “For full disclosure, I, ah. I wasn’t thinking of this as… that. My apologies if you were under a different impression.”

“No, no!” Martin’s hands flew up to flutter, panicked, in front of him, as if trying to wave the very notion out of the air. “I wasn’t, not at all! I think it’s probably better, even, if not everything we do is… like that? This is just- just lunch, no pressure.”

Jon nodded, allowing a cautiously pleased smile to creep onto his face. He tucked his chin into his collar to hide it, but out of the corner of his eye he found Martin making a very similar expression. It made something in the pit of his stomach go warm and, at the same time, jagged around the edges.

“If you do want to go out again sometime though,” Martin said tentatively, swaying in his step enough that their shoulders brushed and set off another volley of fireworks in Jon’s chest, “Maybe we can try for a different day of the week? I can be a little off on Saturdays after visiting my mum, and I don’t want it to all be… I don’t know, weird because of me. D’you want to do Sunday, or maybe Friday?”

“The sooner the better,” Jon said, and instantly succumbed to a mortifying wave of heat that spread from the tips of his ears all the way to the pit of his stomach. He stared resolutely at his shoes, wishing fervently that they would sink through the pavement.

Seemingly involuntarily, Martin made a tiny noise, and in Jon’s periphery he could barely make out Martin’s hand pressed to his sternum as if trying to stem the flow of blood from a wound. An octave higher than usual, he said, “Um. Right! Friday, then?”

It was an effort to keep from touching a hand to his own aching chest. “Friday.”

* * *

In the end, it was Jon’s fault. Between Georgie’s encouragement and the luminous shade of red Martin’s face kept turning, he wound up convincing himself that it was alright to settle into something resembling a comfortable routine in these new circumstances, and by the time they left the Institute on Friday he had resolved to deliberately hold Martin’s hand no matter how much willpower it took.

It would be a show of bravery, he told himself firmly, and of trust. He would wait until they had completed the awkward dance past the worms, and then another half a block for good measure because such gestures were certainly best if they appeared spontaneous, and then he would look straight ahead and not trip over his own feet as he calmly slid his hand into Martin’s.

In theory, the plan was flawless.

When it came down to it, his execution was a bit sloppier than he would have liked; there were several false starts where his hand twitched and bumped into Martin’s spasmodically, and Martin turned, smiling, and said, “Alright?”

“Fine,” Jon said, and to prove it, he took Martin’s hand.

He had failed to take into account how destructively brilliant Martin’s responding expression would be. It was clearly shock, at first, but even as his eyes widened, the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips until he paused, visibly flustered, and bit his lip as he glanced away. Jon watched these proceedings with great interest and more than a little satisfaction, though he couldn’t stop the heat that rose to his own cheeks as Martin recovered enough to give his hand a squeeze and run a thumb over the back of his palm.

They had slowed nearly to a standstill on the sidewalk by this point, floored in quite a literal sense, and Jon might have been content to stand there for hours had the budding peace between them not been shattered by a terribly familiar voice.

“Holy _fuck.”_

He and Martin whirled around at the same time, hands tearing apart in the process, and Jon’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Ah,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. Admittedly, it was not a great deal, and his attempt to shove the offending hand into a pocket certainly didn’t help matters. He swallowed thickly. “Tim.”

Tim stood a few strides apart from a cluster of people Jon could only assume were his friends, agape and staring disbelievingly at the space between them where a moment ago, their hands had been joined. That space hadn’t grown substantially, Jon noted distantly with a muted pang of warmth. Martin hadn’t shrunk away.

As he watched, frozen, Tim’s expression shifted from baffled to absolutely gleeful. “Listen,” he said over his shoulder. “You lads go on without me. I’ll catch up. This is…” He shook his head, grinning broadly now, and fixed his awed gaze back on Jon.

Beside him, Martin sighed deeply. “Tim, you don’t have to-”

“I can’t believe it,” Tim interrupted. “I _can’t_ believe it. Martin, you crazy bastard.”

“There’s nothing here you need to concern yourself with,” Jon tried, but he may as well have told the wind to stop blowing or the ocean to stop producing waves. Tim was a force of nature, especially when he was so overwhelmingly delighted that it seemed to seep out of every pore.

“Jonathan Sims,” Tim said slowly, clearly savoring every syllable. Jon resisted the twin urges to roll his eyes and sink into the ground forever as Tim went on, “Who would have thought you’d finally come around, huh? About bloody time, if you ask me.”

_“Tim,”_ Martin said pleadingly.

Holding up his hands in supplication, Tim laughed. “Just saying.” He paused for a moment, just long enough for Jon to latch onto a flicker of hope that that might be the end of it, and then he said, “So how long has this been going on, then? How many dates has it been?”

“None of your business,” Jon said sullenly, at the exact same time as Martin said, with a good deal more enthusiasm, “This is the third.”

Tim’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “The _third,_ huh?” he said, somehow managing to sound equally conspiratorial and choked. “ _That’s_ exciting.”

Jon frowned, turning to Martin. “Three? Are we counting the first one, then? I rather thought you’d want to forget about that… incident, considering what an ass I made of myself.”

Despite everything, Martin drew himself up to stand a bit straighter, and an inordinate swell of fondness came over Jon. He had to put a conscious effort into steeling his spine so as not to sway into the rapidly increasing gravity well of Martin’s form. “I was counting that one,” Martin said, shaky but firm. “And if it’s all the same to you, I- I think I’ll take all the dates with you I can get.”

“Oh,” Jon said, quietly enough that he doubted even Martin heard it. “Right.”

“You two are just melting my heart,” Tim said, and Jon jolted. It would have been obnoxiously cliché to say he had briefly forgotten about Tim, but surely he couldn’t be faulted for a bit of distraction considering the circumstances. When he looked back up at Tim, he found him looking as pleased as though he’d personally been the one to coordinate the whole affair.

“You’re just excited about your ten pounds,” Martin said, with what might have been a slight undercurrent of strain in his voice.

“Ten pounds,” Jon repeated numbly. “You… bet on us?”

Tim shrugged. “Sorry, boss. It was too good to pass up. _Speaking_ of, when exactly did this happen? And who asked who? Just for, uh, general research purposes?”

Martin sighed heavily. “I asked. And it must have been, uh… I think exactly two weeks now.”

Tim whooped, loudly enough that Jon cast a nervous glance around the street to make sure they weren’t attracting attention. “I _told_ her,” Tim gloated. “I knew it, I- oh, Sasha’s gonna be _pissed.”_ He froze, eyes widening. “Wait. Does Sasha know? Can I- oh my god, can I tell Sasha? Please?”

Jon glanced apprehensively up at Martin and found him already looking back, flushed a deep red. Their eyes met briefly and Martin shrugged, raising his eyebrows at Jon in a clear question. Jon resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“Yes, fine,” he sighed. “If you must. Can we get on now?”

“Right, ‘course,” Tim said, grin stretching impossibly further. “Far be it from me to keep you two lovebirds from your _third date_. God, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to focus on pub night now. I’m so excited!”

“Good _night,_ Tim.” Martin made to turn around, but paused when Tim spoke again.

“Hey,” he said, sobering a bit. “Seriously, though. Congratulations, boys. This is fantastic. I knew you had it in you.”

_That makes one of us,_ Jon thought, mildly bewildered, and raised his hand in a halfhearted wave as Tim gave them a cheerful salute and started walking the other way with a bit of a spring in his step.

As he fell into step beside Martin, though, it occurred to him that Martin seemed to be shrinking slowly in on himself. Even as they crossed a street away from the Institute, putting another block between them and Tim’s overwhelming enthusiasm, he appeared distinctly antsy; his eyes skirted Jon’s, and when their arms brushed together, he pulled away as if shocked.

Jon swallowed, but it did nothing to rid him of the bitter taste suddenly clinging to his teeth. Martin had mentioned Tim’s investment in passing, amidst other topics that had seemed far more important at the time, but at the time he had seemed amused, not mortified. Perhaps the reality of the situation weighed more heavily on him than it had in theory.

They had agreed to take advantage of the spring evenings slowly lengthening by eating in the park before night fell, for which Jon was now deeply thankful; he wasn’t sure he could have borne the silent pitying glances of fellow diners observing the heavy quiet that had settled between them. Instead, they collected their meals quickly and without much conversation before walking back outside in a manner that felt a bit too much like fleeing.

“How’s your pasta?” Jon said eventually, just for the sake of something to say, when they had finally settled on opposite ends of a bench.

“Fine,” Martin said. He did not appear to have taken a single bite. His jaw worked as he pushed the food around in its container, plastic tines scraping against paper. Jon watched him warily until finally, Martin heaved an enormous sigh and locked eyes with him, blazing with stern determination and a furious blush. “You know what Tim said doesn’t mean anything, right?”

Jon blinked. “I- I’m sorry, what did Tim say?”

Martin grimaced. “All that third date nonsense.” He shook his head. “That’s not- we can say this is the second date if you like. And, and even if it wasn’t, there’s no- we don’t have to- I’m not expecting-” Martin broke off with a forceful sigh, seemingly irritated at the sheer force of words escaping him at once.

“Ah,” Jon said. “Right.” There _had_ been something he was forgetting. Tim’s exaggerated shock did make more sense in this context, though Jon wondered with more than a little concern if Tim thought the Institute was a suitable environment for such activities. Had their circumstances been more normal, Jon might have initiated this conversation sooner, but all things considered, it hadn’t even distantly occurred to him.

Martin was watching him with something akin to horror. “Or we can forget I ever said anything and I can flee the country,” he said weakly. “That works too. _God._ Sorry.”

“No, no,” Jon said quickly. He laughed softly. “No, please don’t. But… this is a discussion we should have. In fact, I should have brought it up sooner.”

“I… okay? Is everything alright?” Martin asked, brow furrowed. That was better than the abject mortification from a moment ago, at least, Jon thought dryly. Concern looked more at home on Martin’s face.

“Yes, fine, just… managing expectations,” he said. Martin’s eyes were dark in the dying sunlight and achingly soft. Jon forced himself to meet them. “If we continue down this path together, you should know that while I’m alright with most forms of physical intimacy, sex is not among them. With you or anyone.”

For a moment, Martin just looked at him blankly. Jon waited. Then, all in a rush, Martin set his fork down on his plate, stood up, and walked to the other side of the park bench to sit directly next to Jon. “Alright,” he said, nodding. “Okay. Um. Thank you for telling me.”

Only one of Martin’s legs had made it under the table; the other lay folded on the bench between them, his knee just barely brushing Jon’s thigh. Jon’s heart gave a single intense lurch, and he forcibly dragged his eyes up from that single point of contact up to Martin’s face.

“Alright?”

“Of course.” Martin was smiling, looking at him so intently that Jon would not have been surprised to learn that he could see right inside him. He felt cracked wide open, on the verge of fracturing into pieces right in the middle of a public park, but he could feel nobody’s eyes but Martin’s.

A streetlamp flickered on a short distance behind them, bathing Martin from behind in a golden glow. Jon had never seen anything more fitting.

“So holding hands is… fine,” Martin said, with an expression that suggested he had meant to append a question mark to that observation and gotten lost along the way.

Jon laughed softly and, in lieu of an answer, laid his hand over Martin’s where it was propped on the bench. Martin turned an astonishing shade of mauve in response. “Trust me,” Jon said, relishing the weight of those words on his tongue and conceding silently that maybe, _maybe_ Georgie had been right in this particular regard. “I would have told you by now if it wasn’t.”

“Right,” Martin said, slightly breathless. “And… what about holding _you?_ Is that alright?”

_Oh,_ Jon thought distantly. _Oh, god._ He was fairly certain that if Martin kept looking at him the way he was, something vital inside him would simply shatter. Silently, he nodded.

When Martin’s arms closed around his shoulders, Jon’s arms came up of their own volition to wrap around Martin’s middle, and Martin made a tiny wounded sound in response. It stabbed right through Jon, and he dropped his head down on Martin’s shoulder in defeat, breathing in that undeniably comforting scent that had started to fade from the stolen jumper. A hand ran with unspeakable tenderness up and down Jon’s back, and it took everything he had not to shudder apart right there.

When they finally pulled apart, Martin’s eyes were bright with emotion and his hands lingered on Jon’s shoulders. His voice was raw as he said, “How do you feel about kissing?”

Jon’s breath escaped him all in a rush. Martin looked so achingly earnest that it was all he could do not to fall right back into his embrace. He swallowed and looked Martin in the eye. “Not on the mouth,” he said, voice shaking with something entirely other than nerves. “But- _yes.”_

Martin took a shuddering breath, and for a terrifying second, Jon thought there were tears glistening in his eyes. But none fell, and Martin slid his hands with impossible gentleness up to cup Jon’s cheeks until he was cradled on either side by Martin’s warm palms. He couldn’t help but shut his eyes.

There was a gentle sweeping pressure as Martin ran his thumbs across Jon’s cheekbones, and then Martin’s lips pressed a lingering kiss to Jon’s forehead. Absently, Jon’s hands came up to hold Martin’s in place. He kept his eyes shut long after Martin pulled back, reveling in the heat flooding his entire system, concentrated in that one spot on his forehead.

“Is that alright?” Jon murmured when he found his voice, blinking up at Martin with some difficulty.

Martin’s scoff might have sounded cruel had it not been for the unmistakable fondness in his eyes. “Is that alright,” he repeated. “Honestly.” He searched Jon’s face with something like disbelief, then frowned slightly at whatever it was he found and said, “Jon. Of course it’s alright.”

It would have been an exercise in futility to resist pulling Martin in close again after that, so Jon didn’t bother trying.

Their dinners went cold. It didn’t matter one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! This is maybe the most emotionally significant chapter to me so far, so I really hope you liked it!!! I'll spare you all my essay-length rant on the significance of nonstandard relationship boundaries in long fics, and instead I'll say that I know some of you were probably looking forward to a kiss scene, but I promise to do everything in my power to provide scenes of equal intimacy minus the actual kissing :) Next chapter will be up in two weeks again - December 17th!
> 
> Also, against my better judgment, I'm on [tumblr](https://thewrongshop.tumblr.com/) now, so feel free to come say hi there if you like!!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: non-explicit discussion of sex, asexuality, and personal boundaries (none of which are violated)


	20. Known & Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extended exploration of the mortifying ordeal of being known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from Beautiful Anyway by Judah & the Lion. Enjoy!
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.

Someone was in the archives.

It was a Monday; this might not have been alarming had it not been far too early for anyone to arrive. It was only by virtue of a lingering nightmare that Martin was out of document storage at all, pouring himself a bracing cup of tea and shuffling around the break room in a daze when it occurred to him that hushed voices were filtering in through the hallway.

That realization woke him up far more quickly than the promise of caffeine did. 

His nightmare, incidentally, had been about the way Prentiss had looked that first night in Vittery’s basement, sallow and porous skin stretching with mirth as she hissed in delight at their presence. She had only spoken once, but her voice, breathy and many-layered in a way human voices absolutely should not be, had stayed with Martin quite stubbornly.

He knew what Prentiss’s voice sounded like, and so it was a phone and not a fire extinguisher he picked up as he crept toward the archives proper, thumb hovering over the dial button to call 999. He had no idea why on Earth someone would break into the Magnus Institute of all places, but that was a possibility he felt far better equipped to deal with than another insectoid hostage situation.

The murmurs resolved themselves into two voices as he reached the end of the hallway. As near as Martin could tell, it was a man and a woman, voices urgent and overlapping, teetering on the knife’s edge between whispering and outright speaking. There was a plasticky crinkling sound. Then, loudly enough that Martin’s heart leapt into his throat, one of them laughed, the sound quickly stifled and followed by an amused _shhh!_

Martin stopped short, abruptly feeling very silly. He knew those voices. He really was going a bit paranoid, wasn’t he? Shaking his head at himself, he deleted the phone number he had queued and made his way into the archives.

The sight that greeted him was both exactly what he had expected and entirely perplexing.

“Morning, guys,” he said, more than a bit bewildered, and Tim and Sasha whirled around with matching expressions of alarm and guilt. It did not escape Martin’s notice that they were huddled by his desk, nor that they appeared to have coordinated their movement perfectly to block his view of something on that desk.

“Well, damn,” Tim said perfectly pleasantly, linking his arm with Sasha’s and offering her a conspiratorial grin. “So much for our joint career as cat burglars, huh? I really thought we weren’t that loud.”

“You… weren’t.” Martin leaned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever they were hiding, and Tim tugged Sasha, laughing, along to block his view. “I was already up. What’s this?”

“Oh, nothing.” Sasha’s grin was located somewhere on the sliding scale between wicked and elated.

“Would be _awful_ convenient if you suddenly remembered you had something very important to do in the break room and let us finish our top secret business here, though,” Tim added.

Martin frowned. “Why am I getting the sense that I might _not_ want to do that?”

“Because you’re clearly my narrative foil, Martin,” Tim sighed. “Come on, five minutes? No- two? This will be _so_ much funnier if you let us set it up right.”

“You know that’s not very reassuring, right?”

Sasha giggled. “Sorry, Martin, but I’m not sure if it was meant to be.”

Leaning the other way to see past them didn’t prove any more effective; this time, it was Sasha who anticipated him and shifted to the side. He huffed a breath, half laugh and half sigh. “Oh, great, thanks. That makes me feel much better.”

“As it should,” Tim said sweetly.

“Off you go, now.” Sasha made little shooing motions with her hands.

Martin rolled his eyes without any real irritation, turned, and ended up face to face with Jon, brow furrowed and hair pulled back into a ponytail just haphazard enough to tug at Martin’s heart. There was a loose strand of hair he itched to tuck back behind Jon’s ear.

“What’s going on here?” Jon said, voice still rough with disuse in a way that made Martin’s stomach do a complicated swooping motion. He frowned and leaned to the side in just the same way Martin had moments ago, squinting. “Tim, please tell me there isn’t another dog in here.”

Tim scoffed, indignant. “Good morning to you too, boss. What exactly makes you think _I_ would be the one behind that? Martin was the one who brought it in the first time. And Sasha could bring in a dog!”

“I’m allergic,” Sasha said primly.

Martin gaped. “And I _live_ here! Where am I going to get a dog?”

Jon had a hand over his face. “There you have it. Tim?”

A truly frightening smile was beginning to take shape on Tim’s face. A spike of dread surged through Martin’s gut as Tim looked to Sasha and said, “Well, my dearest partner in crime, I believe the jig is up.”

“I believe it is,” Sasha said solemnly. “Should we have them close their eyes, do you think?”

Tim tapped a finger on his chin in theatrical consideration. “I don’t know, Sash, do you trust them to do that? They might need a… hand.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Jon said firmly, with a distinct undertone of alarm.

“Right you are,” Sasha agreed. “Alright, boys, just shut your eyes for a second, would you? And, uh, Tim… I’ll take Jon, you take Martin?”

Martin sputtered, taking an involuntary step back. “No, hey, wait a second, you don’t need to-”

“Oh, we do.” Tim grinned. “Eyes shut, please, my friend.”

When Martin cast a wary glance to his side, he found Jon already looking back with an equally apprehensive expression. He shrugged helplessly, and Jon grimaced.

“I’ll keep my eyes shut,” Jon tried, but there was little fight to his voice.

Tim was already shuffling toward them, arms outstretched as he nodded sensibly. “And I trust you implicitly, boss, but we’re just gonna take some precautions here.”

“ _Really_ not necessary,” Martin insisted, squeezing his eyes shut like he was bracing for impact and listening as two brisk sets of footsteps advanced toward them. Jon must have shut his eyes as well, then.

Sasha tsked. “Impatient, the lot of you. You deserve each other.”

Before Martin had a chance to reply to _that,_ broad hands were closing firmly over his eyes and there was a light nudge at his back, urging him forward. His steps were shuffling and awkward, equilibrium off-kilter, and his elbow bumped into what he was fairly sure was Jon’s arm. He very, very nearly gave in to the urge to grab it for some semblance of steadiness, physical or otherwise.

“Aaaand stop,” Tim said from behind him. “Alright, Sasha, whenever you’re ready.”

There was a rustling next to him, accompanied by a displeased grumble from Jon. Tim lifted his hands from Martin’s eyes, leaving him blinking away disorientation and staring down at the arrangement Tim and Sasha had made on his desk.

By his side, very faintly, Jon said, “Oh _no.”_

There was a cake. It was very obviously homemade, thickly slathered in icing and wreathed in decorations that had clearly been applied with a great deal of enthusiasm and very little actual skill. In the middle, to Martin’s dismay, there was a barely legible, looping message in red icing: _No more pining!_ The I’s were dotted with what he could only assume were supposed to be hearts. Martin clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a hysterical giggle and feeling the burning of his cheeks beneath his own fingertips.

Sasha clapped, delighted, and exclaimed, “Congratulations!” She threw an arm around Jon’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. He didn’t seem to resist, though Martin couldn’t tell whether that was because he was actually pleased or in shock.

“In my defense,” Tim said, sounding nothing short of gleeful, “You _did_ say I could tell her. You _did_ say that.”

“Yes, I remember,” Jon sighed. He frowned down at the cake for a minute, as if daring it to continue existing in his presence with the sheer force of his stare, and then, with no warning at all, he laughed. It was a short, stiff sound, almost like he had had the wind knocked out of him, but it brought with it a tinge of a smile. “I suppose I was wasting my time thinking about how this would affect the work environment.”

Something went very soft and very warm in the vicinity of Martin’s sternum. Jon was… happy. Jon was smiling shyly and openly acknowledging their relationship in front of their friends. Absently, he wondered if he could get away with surreptitiously pinching himself.

Sasha scoffed fondly. “Come on, Jon. You didn’t really think we wouldn’t be excited, did you? As if I wasn’t right there coaching you through the whole production.”

The vague heat in Martin’s chest burst into a bonfire. “Hey, uh, I would _love_ to hear more about that. For the record.”

“Oh, you will,” Sasha promised, grin widening, and Jon cleared his throat forcefully.

“This,” he said as sternly as was possible for someone blushing furiously enough to darken their skin by several shades, “is hardly a workplace-appropriate topic.”

“It’s only a workplace between the hours of nine and five,” Tim said cheerfully, before glancing up at the clock and visibly deflating. “Oh. Okay, fine, you win this round. But tonight we’re going to celebrate. Non-negotiable.”

Jon looked down at the cake and then back up at Tim, a fresh wave of dismay seeming to overtake him. Martin swayed with the urge to shuffle in closer to him and- wrap his arms around him, or take his hand, or whatever would settle the ballooning sensation in his ribcage. Visibly apprehensive, Jon said, “Isn’t the cake quite enough?”

“Sorry, Jon.” Sasha slipped her hand off of Jon’s shoulder and retrieved a plastic knife from her own desk, making for the cake. “I don’t think you’re going to win this one. We didn’t even get to carry out part two of our grand plan. This is the least you can do to make that up to us.”

When Jon muttered darkly, “I don’t think I want to know what part two entailed,” Martin’s resolve broke just a bit, and he allowed himself to take one small shuffling step closer so his arm and Jon’s shoulder bumped together. It was worth the tiny " _aw!"_ Sasha let out to see Jon look up at him, surprised, and offer him a small smile. Unthinkably, there was fondness there.

“Your loss,” Tim said. “At least take a slice of cake with you when you lock yourself in your ivory tower.”

Martin might have imagined that the pressure of Jon’s arm against his increased for a moment before Jon pulled away with a sigh.

“As long as it isn’t the one that says _pining.”_

* * *

“So, spill,” Tim said that evening, leaning eagerly across the table in blatant disregard of the plates and glasses in his way. “I need details.”

Martin rescued his water glass from Tim’s sprawl and clutched it like a talisman, running an anxious finger through the condensation. “I mean, you know what happened, don’t you?”

“I was under the impression this was a celebratory dinner, not an interrogation,” Jon grumbled beside him. Their thighs bumped together under the table, and Martin couldn’t help half a grin at his poorly affected tetchiness.

“It is,” Tim said. He propped his chin on his hands in exaggerated attentiveness. “We’re celebrating by telling the epic tale of this office romance. Come on, boss. Poor Sasha and I have been watching this pining for long enough.”

Martin narrowly avoided choking on his water and flicked his fingers, wet with condensation, in Tim’s direction. Tim didn’t even flinch.

Jon had gone a bit red, a stubborn frown tugging at his lips. “I resent the implication that there was visible pining.”

“There was,” Sasha said at the exact same time as Tim said, “Who says that bit was about you?” They caught each other’s eye and high-fived. Martin resisted the urge to hide his face, preferably in Jon’s shoulder but more likely behind his own hands to avoid even more teasing. They’d only just arrived, and already he was flushed and staring steadfastly down at the table.

Visible pining. _Visible._ Jon always chose his words carefully; there was no way he didn’t know what he was implying.

“Martin, at least,” Tim said, thoroughly distracting him from what could have proved to be a bit of a spiral. He drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “How long’s it been? Must be at least-”

“ _Tim,”_ Martin pleaded, eyes flicking nervously to the side to gauge Jon’s reaction. “No need for that, come on.”

There was a sound like a politely muffled cough, and Martin twisted to see Jon’s eyes just darting away, head ducked and warmth practically radiating from his face. His lips were pinched like it was a physical effort to keep from speaking.

Martin almost laughed. “Really? You of all people might have noticed.”

Jon shook his head almost imperceptibly, gaze still fixed intently on the table. “I believe I was… quite determined _not_ to notice for a while.”

“Too busy tearing his reports to shreds,” Sasha said sympathetically. “It happens to the best of us.”

As much as he might have been keeping his expression in check, it seemed Jon couldn’t hold back his flinch. He shrunk in on himself, grimacing and tucking his arms in close to his chest.

“ _Sasha.”_ Martin gave her a look; to her credit, she did look vaguely guilty.

“Sorry. Only kidding.”

Jon straightened, visibly steeling his spine in that way that normally meant he was about to put on his business voice. Looking up at Martin, he said, “No, she’s right. Sasha, I do appreciate you holding me accountable for my actions.” He pulled one leg up on the booth so he was fully facing Martin, meeting his eye with extreme gravity. “Considering how much we’ve talked about equality in the workplace, it’s shocking- no, unacceptable- that I’ve gone this long without apologizing for my behavior. I was _deplorable_ to you, and it was wholly undeserved. The damage, I’m sure, is done, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Truly.”

He may as well have reached directly into Martin’s chest and dug his nails into his heart. Jon looked so earnest, so desperately apologetic, that Martin couldn’t help but reach out to where Jon’s hand lay on the booth, fingers curling and uncurling rhythmically. The restless motion stopped at Martin’s touch, their fingertips just barely overlapping but apparently anchoring Jon nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Martin said. “Um. It’s alright, Jon, really. You’ve changed. It, uh. It did hurt back then, but honestly-” He cleared his throat, suddenly caught in the same awkward eye-flicking embarrassment that had overcome Jon moments ago. “Honestly, Tim can probably tell you I was already, uh. Interested. Back then. It’s been a few months.” A single nervous laugh escaped him as Jon’s hand twitched under his own.

“A few _months,”_ Jon breathed disbelievingly. “ _Months?”_

“Yeah, well.” Martin shrugged, trying and failing to strike a casual balance between picking at the food on his plate as a distraction and keeping his hand in contact with Jon’s. Eventually he settled for fidgeting absently with his fork, his other hand giving Jon’s a light squeeze that was more self-soothing than actual communication. “What can I say.”

“I almost feel like we shouldn’t be here for this,” Tim stage-whispered to Sasha, a note of sincerity buried beneath his toothy smile.

Martin kicked him under the table. “Oh, shove off. You invited us, _and_ you’re the reason I just said that… deeply embarrassing thing in the first place.”

Tim’s smile widened. “Cheers to that.”

Jon muttered something under his breath that might have included the word _embarrassing_ , but before Martin could devote too much thought to it, Sasha said, “Can’t believe you never noticed. I mean- sorry, Martin, but you weren’t very subtle.”

Blushing furiously, Martin managed, “I’m aware, thanks.”

“All a matter of perspective, really,” Jon mused. For a moment, Martin envied how poorly color showed up on Jon’s face; the only signs that he was anywhere near as flustered as Martin were the slight tremor in his voice and the way his gaze flicked erratically around the table but never up at anyone’s eyes. “It really wasn’t so obvious to me – I suppose it’s, um. The sort of thing you need to be looking for. Which I guess I was, after a while.”

One of Martin’s hands made its way slowly up to his mouth, pressing knuckles to his lips in an attempt to seal in any of the humiliating noises he was liable to make at that.

“Oh? Do tell,” Tim said, leaning ever further forward with rapt interest. He met Martin’s eye conspiratorially as he said, “When was that, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jon said dismissively, waving a hand. It was only because Martin had quite a bit of practice reading Jon’s expressions that he noticed the slight clench of his jaw, the faintest flicker of uncertainty washing across his face.

It was unlikely that Martin could have formed coherent words at that moment, so it was a lucky thing that Tim, in a stroke of either absolute understanding or plain nosiness, simply raised his eyebrows and made a show of leaning back in his booth, arms crossed. Martin had seen that particular nonverbal message plenty of times: _I have all day._ Tim was quite good at that one.

By Martin’s count, Jon only took twenty seconds to crack. “I don’t know,” he said again, this time less adamantly. His hands fluttered nervously in front of him, as if trying to shape the words in the air. “I- a few weeks, at least? I don’t remember when exactly I called Sasha, but it’s been at least a month now.”

Tim drew in a sharp breath, aiming an accusing look at Sasha. “You called Sasha?”

“Sorry, Tim.” Sasha grinned sheepishly, hands up in surrender. “I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Betrayal in the archives,” Tim muttered under his breath. “Unbelievable. See if I bake another cake with you.”

Martin didn’t realize he’d been slowly leaning in until his shoulder made contact with Jon’s and he jumped. It was like he’d been magnetized, gravitating toward Jon at every opportunity. Jon glanced at him absentmindedly, and if Martin hadn’t known any better, he might have thought that a flicker of fondness flashed over Jon’s face before he turned back to Tim.

“I’ll be the first to admit it wasn’t very professional of me,” he said. Martin choked on a laugh, jolting his shoulder further into Jon’s. “In my defense, I had just had a bit of a shock. I needed someone level-headed.”

Martin had never seen such a smug smile as the one that crept onto Sasha’s face. She elbowed Tim. “Hear that?”

Tim put on an exaggerated scowl. “No.”

Somewhere in the interim, Martin found his voice. He spent a moment composing himself, drawing back from the line of contact with Jon’s arm to clear his head, and said with some difficulty, “So… at that point, you developed… feelings? And then you started noticing?”

Jon’s voice was low; it was almost certainly audible to Tim and Sasha, but the words carried an air of secrecy nonetheless. “I… it might be a stretch to say I was aware, but-” He met Martin’s eyes with devastating honesty. “I was hoping.”

* * *

Nights spent with Jon were far more informative than Martin would have anticipated. He might have gone so far as to call the evening so far properly _educational_ had that not made the whole experience sound dry and uninteresting. Far from it; Martin was _riveted._

Thus far, he had learned: Jon’s couch was far more comfortable when he was sharing it _with_ Jon. Jon had frankly abysmal taste in movies and, moreover, Jon had nothing in the way of streaming or even DVDs to watch movies, and relied almost entirely on the BBC. Jon made extremely charming expressions of deepest distaste at all of Martin’s more whimsical suggestions of fictional movies, and he didn’t seem to be aware of it in the slightest. Jon preferred nonfiction, particularly documentaries. As a direct result of that last piece of information, Martin learned that the Greenland shark could live for more than two hundred years and that sunfish laid the most eggs of any known vertebrate.

And then Martin stopped learning anything documentary-related at all, because there was a slight shuffling motion beside him as Jon tucked his feet up on the couch and settled back with a sigh, which left him relaxed in a way Martin had hardly ever seen him and, most concerningly, close enough to Martin that he could practically feel the warmth radiating off of him.

There were mere inches between them, and the entire moment felt shrouded in a sort of warm closeness. Martin was achingly aware of the way Jon curled up into himself with his arms wrapped around his middle like he was holding himself in one piece, the feeling of the material of the couch dipping under his legs where he and Jon nearly occupied the same divot in the fabric, the spill of Jon’s hair loose over his shoulders, shot through with startling silver in the low light and tucked neatly behind his ears. Jon had complained of a headache when they’d first arrived, and before Martin could offer to call off the date or run to a nearby Tesco for some Advil, Jon had pulled the elastic out of his hair and shaken it out, grumbling, “That’s better,” and left Martin to turn bright red and squeak some nonsense about making himself comfortable in his own home.

It was all he could do to keep up a semblance of focus on the documentary instead of leaning in and closing the scant distance between them, but Martin was hardly about to do something over-affectionate when he was at Jon’s flat on a _date_ for the first time. If he wasn’t particularly subtle with his glances aimed anywhere but at Jon, so be it. That was better than overstepping some invisible boundary and making Jon uncomfortable.

Jon really didn’t have many windows, Martin thought absently, eyes flicking around the room with detached interest, and then he stiffened slightly and mentally shoved that thought in a box, sealing it with industrial-strength tape and pushing it away.

_Cuvier’s beaked whale can hold its breath for more than two hours,_ the narrator said solemnly. _Longer than any other species of mammal._

Jon huffed again and shifted restlessly, drawing a knee up to his chest and curling his arms around it. He rested his chin on his knee, and this time, the motion brought him close enough to Martin that there was a bump of contact. No sooner had he settled in this new position than he was moving around again, a small agitated frown tugging at his lips.

Martin eyed him cautiously. “Alright there?”

“Yes, fine,” Jon mumbled. “Don’t mind me.” With a burst of decisive movement, he shoved himself against the back of the sofa, arms crossed firmly and both legs stretched out in front of him again. As soon as he was properly seated, he grew so still that it had to be deliberate. His breathing was measured, there were the faintest tics of movement in his fingertips, and the entire length of his arm pressed solidly against Martin’s. Jon did not acknowledge the contact in any way, staring resolutely ahead with an expression of such focus on his face that Martin almost doubted he was actually paying attention to what was on the screen.

Something clicked softly in the recesses of Martin’s mind. Absently, he flexed his hands, palms abruptly tingling where he had cupped Jon’s face the last time they went out. He was… beginning to harbor a bit of a suspicion about Jon. It was one he couldn't express out loud for fear of uprooting whatever delicate trust Jon had begun to place in him, but the evidence was pressed all up against his left side, elbow to shoulder, staunchly ignoring the wondering look Martin was now turning on him.

His suspicion was instantly confirmed when he slowly, carefully draped his arm over Jon’s shoulder and Jon tensed for a fraction of a second before leaning bodily into it, the clutch of his arms loosening as his temple pressed into Martin’s shoulder. It was enough to make Martin’s heart feel like it was bursting in his chest.

For a moment, they were motionless, ostensibly watching the documentary. Jon’s restless movements had quieted; he was practically boneless against Martin’s side, which filled him with a protective sort of glee. It was as if he’d gotten a look behind the curtain of who Jon was in the office. This was not something everybody got to see; as far as Martin could tell, Jon was not at all in the habit of removing his armor. There was a long pause during which Martin didn’t quite dare to move, sure that even the smallest twitch would disturb the peace, but a minute crawled by and the narrator droned on, and he let the tension drain from his body.

He let out a long sigh as he did so, arm briefly tightening around Jon’s shoulder before he relaxed, and the response was instant. In much the same way Martin had seen stray cats stretch in the sun, Jon pushed his face more insistently into Martin’s collarbone as a small shudder ran through his frame. Martin paused.

“Jon?”

“Yes?” Jon’s voice was gruff, as if he was putting quite a bit of effort into sounding stern and had instead landed somewhere in the vicinity of woke-up-five-minutes-ago.

It was an effort not to pull him in close again, but Martin managed. “Are you… cold?” he ventured.

“I’m fine.”

Martin pulled back to look at him properly, taking in the frown that tugged at Jon’s lips as he did so. “Are you sure? I could- you can borrow my jumper if you like.”

Jon’s eyes flicked down, then back up at Martin’s face. There was something almost _shy_ there, an expression that looked so unfamiliar it was nearly alien on Jon. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’m not cold.”

Considering the full-body shiver Martin had just felt, that seemed unlikely. He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, if you’re sure. But I’m, uh, running a bit warm anyway? I might take it off either way, if you don’t mind. That way, if you change your mind…” He trailed off as he reached for his hem, then froze. “Oh. I’m- I’m wearing a shirt underneath this, you know that, right? I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, I can see your collar,” Jon said dryly, but one corner of his mouth was tilted softly upward. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Ah. Right.” Martin made quick work of his jumper, then held it out tentatively toward Jon. He hadn’t been lying; between Jon’s proximity and the heavy thudding of his own heart, he was quite warm, and grew more so as Jon grumbled something halfhearted and took the jumper from him after all.

It absolutely swallowed him. Martin had forgotten just how large his clothes had been on Jon in his flat, and as he watched Jon carefully pull the too-long sleeves to envelop his hands, he became aware that he had also forgotten the depth of emotion that had been attached. His instinct was to avert his eyes as if he was seeing something indecent, but instead he let his gaze linger.

He didn’t quite mean to say, “You’re rather lovely, you know,” but once the words were out he found he had no desire at all to retract them, especially when Jon looked at him like he’d been shocked. Martin smiled. “I’m serious. I’ve always thought so.”

Jon gaped at him for a moment, but when Martin outstretched his arm in an echo of their former position, he didn’t hesitate to shuffle right back in. “I am not,” he muttered, sounding distinctly affronted as he leaned heavily into Martin's side.

Idly, Martin wondered if pressing a kiss to the top of Jon’s head would quell his protests. The thought alone caused a lurch in his heart so intense he nearly gasped, and he settled for silently giving Jon another gentle squeeze around the shoulders.

When Jon gave another small shiver in response, swathed in the warmth of Martin’s jumper, Martin thought, _Interesting._

It really was a properly educational evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of Tim and Sasha's Grand Plan was for one of them to get Jon out of his office long enough that the other one could sneak a single heart-frosted cupcake onto his desk. Did you know they make [recipes for single cupcakes](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-one-vanilla-cupcake-232728)? Because that is information that delights me to no end. 
> 
> I'm hoping to get my writing schedule back on track once I'm done with finals this week, but for now chapters will still be out every two weeks (next one December 31st - although that's New Year's Eve, so... maybe a few hours late or something? I'll edit this note if that changes)!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: minor trypophobia/descriptions of Jane Prentiss


	21. Just to Get Me By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and a few worms do an equally bad job at sneaking in where they shouldn't be allowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title for this one is from Spoonful by Grizfolk. Enjoy!!
> 
> (Check out the lovely art for this chapter [here](https://chalroe.tumblr.com/post/639125104788373504/jon-the-sweater-thief-aka-more-art-for-a-home-for)!!! Thank you so much, Charlie!!!)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes.

Jon did not turn on the light as he slipped into document storage. Not that it would likely have attracted any attention, considering that he was quite sure all the assistants were thoroughly occupied at their desks and no one had seen him emerge from his office clutching both of Martin’s jumpers furtively to his chest, but he was taking every precaution. This was the perfect opportunity, maybe the only one he would get to unobtrusively sneak the original jumper back into Martin’s possession, and he was not about to let it go awry.

In the faint light spilling through the door, he could barely make out the edges of Martin’s cot shoved into the furthest corner of the room. He crept toward it, throwing glances over his shoulder every few steps even though the room was almost eerily silent. There were a few errant belongings strewn about the area, and as his eyes adjusted, Jon could make out rumpled blankets and, higher up, a neat arrangement of items – a notebook, a water bottle, a paperback with a bending cover – lined up on top of the filing cabinet directly adjacent to the cot.

He could imagine Martin’s glasses neatly folded and added to the end of that row, could imagine Martin, nearsighted and hazy in more than vision, fumbling his way down to the cot in the dark like Jon had done so many times. Martin probably settled much more quickly than Jon did, though; surely his calming disposition lent itself to far more restful nights than those Jon was used to. Unless he had nightmares, Jon reminded himself, and then shook his head at the nonsense of it all. This was hardly a productive train of thought. He had a job to do, after all.

After a moment of deliberation, he left both jumpers neatly folded and stacked at the foot of the cot. Martin had a duffel bag stashed beneath the cot where he presumably kept the rest of his clothes, but disrupting the organizational system inside was likely to arouse more suspicion than leaving the extra jumper in plain view. With any luck, Martin would absentmindedly put both of them away, perhaps assume that he’d laid out the second jumper himself, and forget the whole affair had ever taken place, absolving Jon of all guilt. If he had learned anything during his tenure as Head Archivist, it was that people were usually willing to go to absurd lengths to explain strange occurrences to themselves. Surely the appearance of a long-lost jumper wouldn’t be any different, assuming it even registered as a blip on Martin’s radar.

Satisfied, Jon nodded to himself and drew back from the cot. He couldn’t stop himself from trailing his fingers lightly over the material of the jumper one last time, but that didn’t matter in the dark where nobody could see him. It was perhaps a bit selfish, yes, but certainly harmless to regret the loss considering he was unlikely to wear Martin’s clothes again for some time. The perpetual chill in the archives had no bearing on the fact that they were coming up on summer.

It didn’t matter. Jon turned on his heel, refusing to linger any longer, and swept out of document storage without so much as a backward glance. He didn’t even stop to smooth out the edge of the sheets before he left.

* * *

Of course, things were not in the habit of going Jon’s way. Never had been. The last several weeks had proved a notable exception which, frankly, was long overdue for an interruption.

This interruption came in the form of Jon’s office door creaking open later that day as he was in the middle of recording a statement, to his laptop for once instead of a tape. Loath as he was to admit it, Jon almost missed the shape of the recorder’s buttons under his fingers – they made a much more satisfying _clack_ than his keyboard, and the whirring of the tape made for pleasant background noise where his laptop left him speaking into dead air. The computer also picked up on miscellaneous noise more easily, so it was practically a reflex to hover his hand over the keyboard in preparation to pause the recording as he glanced up to see Martin, hesitating in the doorway and smiling.

With only the barest stumble in his reading, Jon held up a finger. “Final comments,” he said pointedly, doing his best to project his voice across the room. Martin made a quiet noise of understanding that Jon prayed wouldn’t be audible in the recording and leaned against the doorframe.

“Ultimately,” Jon said, studiously ignoring him, “Our research has been unable to locate any convincing evidence that the figure Mr. Cauldwell describes in his attic is in any way, shape, or form supernatural. Sasha was able to locate records of some local disappearances in a period of three years before this statement was given, but considering that the only victim Mr. Cauldwell suspects this creature to have had is his _dog_ , I find it hard to believe the events are in any way related. Moreover, Martin’s research on the creature’s appearance leads me to believe that the encounter was more likely with some sort of roosting owl than a supernatural being, and therefore I am inclined to discredit this statement in its entirety and recommend that rather than the Magnus Institute, Mr. Cauldwell contact an exterminator. Statement ends.”

Martin remained quiet until Jon had ended the recording and rubbed at his temples with a deep sigh, and when a ringing silence settled over them, he cleared his throat. “Thanks for the jumpers.”

Jon winced. The plural did not bode especially well. “It’s freshly washed,” he said. Instead of meeting Martin’s eye, he sorted the statement he had just read and its associated notes into a manila folder, setting the whole affair aside and wishing quietly for another. “I didn’t put it in the dryer, though. I hope that’s alright. I’ve had some bad experiences with shrunken clothes in the past that I was not eager to repeat.”

“Thoughtful of you.” There was a smile in Martin’s voice. “Don’t worry about that, they air dry just fine. But I _was_ wondering, how long have you been holding on to that other one?”

Carefully schooling his face into neutrality, Jon said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, of course you don’t.” Martin laughed, and when Jon dared a glance up at him, he found his gaze met with one of deepest amusement. Martin made his way properly into the room and circled around Jon’s desk, coming up to lean next to Jon's chair. “And I suppose the other jumper that ended up neatly folded on my bed just… made its way there on its own?”

“How am I to know,” Jon said, confidence wavering as he turned his chair to face Martin, deciding that the best way to handle this situation was head-on. Perhaps enough sincerity would convince him to drop the subject. “It’s not as though I’m keeping track of your wardrobe.”

“Oh, my wardrobe, no, of course not. Just the one jumper, I think.”

Jon opened his mouth to object and then closed it again. Martin, to his dismay, had become significantly more stubborn in recent weeks. There was a glint in his eye and something lingering behind his smile that spoke of surety, and Jon had seen Martin defend the innocence of enough spiders to recognize the expression that meant he would not be backing down.

“I forgot to give it back after we left your flat,” he said. That much was true, at least. “I intended to return it much sooner. My apologies.”

“You,” Martin said, his voice curling around a smug grin, “are a terrible liar. Do you know that?” He emphasized this point with a teasing poke to Jon’s bicep, which Jon blinked down at dully.

“I’m… sorry?”

Martin leaned on the desk, close enough to fill Jon’s entire field of vision with his quietly gleeful aura. “It’s true. You always get this little-” He reached out and gently touched a fingertip to the space between Jon’s eyebrows. “Right here.”

When Martin pulled his hand away, Jon’s own hand drifted up to replace it, rubbing with his thumb as if to wipe away the evidence. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought Martin was looking right through him for all the naked vulnerability he felt under his gaze. Weakly, with the distinctly unsettling sense that he was grasping at straws, Jon said, “Have I really told you enough lies to have an obvious tell?”

“Mostly about whether you’ve had lunch or if you got any sleep.” Martin shrugged. “Less since Prentiss. Anyway, you know you could have just kept the jumper and I wouldn’t have noticed, right? I left so many clothes at my flat, I never would have known that one was missing.”

“Even so.” Jon slid his hand down to cover his entire face. Into his palm, he admitted, “As… tempting as that might have been, I couldn’t keep it in good conscience.”

He didn’t dare uncover his face, but Martin’s delight was audible. “Oh, _tempting,_ was it?”

Behind his hand, Jon squeezed his eyes shut, cheeks burning. “Go away, Martin.”

There was silence for a long while, and when Jon’s curiosity overpowered his mortification, he found Martin looking down at him with an unreadable expression. “No, I don’t think I will,” Martin said, voice carefully measured as if he was putting significant effort into keeping it steady. “You’re so- I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Just-” Martin laughed. “If you had told me a few months ago- hell, a few _weeks,_ even, that I’d be watching you blush about _stealing my clothes,_ I’d have said you were mad. Absolutely loony.” Another disbelieving laugh. “I’m just readjusting, is all.”

“You gave me the jumper,” Jon grumbled, ducking his head as though he could conceal the heat radiating off his face in his collar. “That hardly constitutes theft.”

“Yeah, I did.” There was a shuffling sound as Martin shifted the folder containing the Cauldwell file aside and perched on the edge of the desk with a disarming smile. Jon couldn’t even bring himself to protest his desk being used as a chair as Martin went on, “Wasn’t expecting you to hoard it like a dragon, though. Drag it back to your lair, put it on the pile of all your other pilfered treasures-”

Jon drew back to look Martin in the eye, scowling. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Martin’s foot bumped against his amicably. “Hey,” he said in a slightly lower register. “It’s fine, you know. I- I like it. It’s sweet.”

“Sweet,” Jon repeated in a tone that he hoped communicated the depth of his distaste. He staunchly ignored the resurgence of heat prickling at the back of his neck and tips of his ears; the last thing he needed was to prove Martin right.

“Well, yeah!” It was a small consolation that Martin had gone quite red himself, though he seemed to be bearing it with more dignity. Jon supposed he had more practice. “I mean, you’ve been- I assume you’ve been wearing it? I’m sorry, but I can’t think of any other way to describe that.”

Jon focused very intently on keeping his face smooth and relaxed as he said, “I haven’t been wearing it.”

The slow, broad smile that spread across Martin’s face was not especially reassuring. “No?”

_“No.”_

Martin’s gaze was soft and unyielding. Jon buckled, resolve disintegrating like wet paper. “Hardly at all.”

Martin appeared to be firmly pinching his lips together, and when they tugged up at the corners anyway he covered his mouth with a hand instead. “I’ve changed my mind. I can think of a couple other words to describe that, actually, but I don’t think you’re going to like them.”

Jon gave him an appalled look and fought furiously to loosen the invisible vise that had started tightening around his lungs without his permission. Nobody had warned him that Martin would start- _flirting_ with him? Was that what was happening? Good lord. “Did you need something, Martin,” he said, slightly breathless.

“Oh! Not really. Just thought I’d let you know that the workday’s over, not that it’ll make much of a difference to you. Tim and Sasha said to wish you a good night.”

He frowned. “Is it already that late? I only just finished recording for the day.”

The desk creaked faintly in protest as Martin stood, easing away from Jon’s side with a nod. “Yeah, about half eight, I think. I can heat you up some leftovers if you like.”

Automatically, Jon gave a detached smile and said, “That won’t be-” He cut himself short. Unless he had well and truly started seeing things, Martin looked vaguely disappointed. And he _was_ a bit hungry. Jon cleared his throat and started over. “That would be nice. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin smiled and made for the door. Jon had just resolved to immerse himself in a new statement when the footsteps paused and he looked up to see Martin hesitating in the doorway, one hand on the frame. His eyes glinted with poorly contained mirth. “But you did wear it, though, didn’t you?”

Jon froze, a deer in the headlights. With as much dignity as he could muster, he said, “Certainly not during work hours.”

Martin’s smile grew in breadth and brilliance even as a deep red crept up his neck. “So you’ve been wearing it to sleep then.”

Resisting the urge to tug at his collar or shuffle about the papers on his desk, Jon said, “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

As Martin cast a final, lingering look across the room, steeped in flustered delight, Jon came to the conclusion that in all future endeavors, lying to Martin should be avoided at all costs. It was clearly a futile exercise.

* * *

“This,” Jon gasped over the hiss of the fire extinguisher, “is the last straw.”

Tim stumbled into place beside him, back flat against Jon’s office door, wiping his forehead as the spray tapered off. He held the extinguisher loosely in one hand, arm gone slack by his side. “You’re telling me. Lucky thing someone stashed that extinguisher under your desk, huh?”

“Lucky indeed,” Jon said darkly, then jumped as the door jolted against his back. The moment he stepped aside, Martin and Sasha pushed into the room with wide eyes and matching expressions of alarm.

“What happened?” Sasha demanded, eyes sweeping across the floor urgently until she located the shriveled worms, curled in on themselves in silver crescents against the far wall. “ _Shit._ You’re kidding.”

“Everything’s fine,” Jon said. Martin was looking him and Tim over with visible concern, so he added, “It was only two or three of them, and Tim spotted them well before they came near either of us.”

He strode across the room to where Tim had spotted the worms and glared down at them before bringing the heel of his shoe down. The noise it produced was terrible, as was the stain that was left behind, but a grim sort of satisfaction washed over him nonetheless. Even when the dissipating wisps of CO2 set him off coughing, Jon couldn’t bring himself to regret reducing the creatures to a slick smear on the floor.

“We should let the room air out for a while,” Sasha said from the doorway. She waved him over, and Jon nodded and followed.

“I don’t even know how they got in there,” Tim mused as he led the charge into the break room. “Your office is nowhere near the entrance, and they can’t have crawled all the way through the archives, can they?”

Martin made a small noise of disgust. “Maybe they got tracked in on someone’s shoe?”

“Maybe,” Jon muttered, ignoring the vague unease simmering in the pit of his stomach. His office didn’t have any openings besides the door. There was really no point in working himself up. “I don’t even have windows,” he said out loud, as if saying the words would solidify their truth. It didn’t sound very convincing, even to himself. “That’s the only possibility.”

“That makes sense,” Sasha said. She reached up to give Martin’s arm a reassuring squeeze where he was silently but visibly fretting beside her. “We’ll just all make sure to check our shoes from now on when we arrive. And Jon, seeing as you don’t have windows, you’d better stay out for a few minutes, I think. All that carbon dioxide can’t be good for you.”

Jon nodded. “That won’t be an issue for the moment. I’m going to talk to Elias. He still hasn’t followed through on his promise to install a CO2-based fire system.”

Tim puffed out his cheeks, blowing out a long breath in exaggerated sympathy. “Good luck, boss-man.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Jon said automatically as he made for the door. “But thank you.”

He had barely stepped foot into the hallway when a hand snagged his elbow. Jon jumped, but his heart retreated from his throat when he turned to see Martin, looking apologetic and drawing his hand back.

“Sorry,” Martin said. “Sorry. Just wanted to say I- I’m glad you’re okay.”

“This is blatant favoritism,” Tim called from the adjoining room. “Cold, Martin.”

Despite himself, an airy laugh escaped Jon. For all the complaints he could have made about Tim’s excessive familiarity or crude jokes, he had to admit that his spirit was indomitable.

Martin rolled his eyes. “Glad you’re okay too, Tim!” he called over his shoulder before giving Jon a fond look and brushing past him into the archives.

Jon made a conscious effort to buoy himself with that casual warmth instead of allowing the mounting dread to drag him down as he approached Elias’s office.

As it turned out, he sorely needed it; the chill in Elias’s office was even more pervasive than in the archives, even though once Jon closed the door behind him there was no visible way drafts could get in. The walls were entirely obscured with bookshelves, packed with thick academic tomes that looked equally dense in heft and subject matter, and behind Elias’ desk hung a portrait of Jonah Magnus staring disapprovingly down. As soon as he met Elias's gaze and received an inviting nod, Jon gritted his teeth and seated himself across from him.

“Well,” Elias said after a terse moment. “What a pleasant surprise to see my Head Archivist out of the archives. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jon bit back something sharp on the tip of his tongue about varying definitions of pleasure. “I’m sure you’ll remember discussing changing the Institute’s fire system to something carbon dioxide-based,” he said shortly. “Seeing as that discussion was over a month ago, it seemed appropriate to come ask what progress has been made on that front.”

Elias steepled his fingers and smiled blandly. “Of course. I assure you, the safety of my archival crew is of the utmost importance.”

Rather than at Elias’s infuriatingly calm expression, Jon looked up at the looming portrait behind him. It was a gaze he could only hold for a few seconds; there was something unnerving in Magnus’s expression. Whoever had been commissioned to paint it had devoted a fraction too much attention to the eyes. Jon resisted squeezing his own eyes shut; there was suddenly a throbbing pressure in his skull like he was on the verge of a headache. “Can I take that to mean that the CO2 system will be installed quite soon, then?”

“Naturally,” Elias soothed. It was the sort of tone one might take with a particularly petulant child whose tittering parents were in earshot, heavy with meaning clearly not meant for him. “If I may, Jon – and I certainly wouldn’t want to pry – you seem to be under a bit of stress lately. I hope the new position isn’t weighing on you too heavily?”

Jon’s spine stiffened of its own accord. “Of course not.”

Elias smiled. “No, I didn’t think so. As I’ve said before, I believe you to be a perfect fit for the Archivist position. My faith in you is absolute.”

“Thank you.” Jon forced himself to take a steadying breath and looked Elias in the eye. “I would appreciate it if there’s anything you can do to accelerate the installation, if that’s possible.”

Elias waved a hand. “Yes, yes, certainly. I’ll make a call.” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Now, Jon. A carbon dioxide-based fire system is long overdue in the archives, and I won’t try to convince you otherwise. Frankly, it’s quite an oversight that we haven’t yet transitioned to something less damaging to our paper assets. But if I remember correctly, this isn’t about document preservation, is it? It’s about those… insects plaguing the entrance.” His lips twisted with displeasure at the words.

Worms were not insects, nor did it seem likely that the creatures outside bore more than an outwardly resemblance to actual worms, but Jon resisted the urge to point this out and instead nodded hesitantly. He weighed each word carefully before speaking, inexplicably convinced that Elias was expecting a certain answer. “That is my most immediate concern, yes.”

“And you are quite sure that this is a legitimate threat? I try not to be alarmist, Jon, and I can’t help but notice that all the employees that walk past them on a daily basis have remained unharmed. If only out of concern for your mental wellbeing, I would urge you to consider the possibility that these worms are entirely unrelated to those you encountered.”

“With all due respect,” Jon said stiffly, “I am _quite_ sure. If you need Martin to corroborate that, I’m sure he’d be perfectly willing to.”

It could have been a trick of the light, but Elias’s polite smile seemed to tighten slightly. “No need.” He reached out and straightened the items on his desk with short, meticulous motions. “After all, if I can’t trust the knowledge of my Archivist, whose can I trust? If it were only Martin making these claims, I might cast more doubt on them, but fortunately we have your account to corroborate.”

Jon’s hands, resting on his thighs, curled into the fabric of his trousers. “I assure you Martin’s word is perfectly sound.”

“Of course. I hope I haven’t touched a nerve, Jon. My apologies. I only mean to say, I do hope you can subsist on your handheld fire extinguisher system in the interim.”

“We’ve managed so far.” Jon stood, his chair scraping loudly on the hardwood. Elias did not flinch so much as look at the chair like it had personally disappointed him. “Thank you for your concern. Have a nice day.”

“Do try and stay safe, Jon,” Elias called amicably after him as he turned.

A single glance over his shoulder revealed that Elias had turned back to his work, apparently unfazed by Jon’s rising temper. It didn’t serve to diminish the unnerving sense that a pair of eyes rested on him all the way to the door.

* * *

The shining greyish stain in the corner of Jon’s office proved both deeply distracting and remarkably difficult to remove. Jon spent a significant portion of the next half hour crouched on his floor in an extremely undignified manner, joints aching from the cold floor and the scrubbing motion as he absolutely soiled a kitchen rag only to leave an immovable outline on the floor.

As he sat back on his heels and inspected his hands for any residue that might have gone astray, he couldn’t help a single humorless laugh. “Out, damned spot,” he muttered under his breath. At least it wasn’t blood on his hands.

He set back to his task, but he had hardly spent a minute putting his back into the motion so thoroughly he feared it would put holes in the rag when the door creaked open behind him and there was a soft confused sound before Martin said, “Oh. There you are. I brought you some tea.”

Jon gave the spot on the floor one last resentful look before turning to Martin. “Thank you. If you could just set it on my desk – I’ll be done here in a moment.”

He watched as Martin placed the tea in the corner of the desk he’d taken to keeping clear and smiled faintly as Martin paused for a moment to straighten the cup in its saucer, trailing his fingertips over the edge of the desk before making his way to Jon. Jon averted his eyes before Martin squatted down beside him, but judging by the quietly pleased look on Martin’s face he hadn’t been quite subtle enough. That seemed to be a common theme, of late.

“I’m going to be honest, Jon,” Martin said softly. A note of alarm struck Jon at his tone, and he let the rag fall before turning to face him fully. Martin sighed. “I think maybe… you should consider not staying in the Institute anymore.”

Martin’s line of sight led directly to the dark outline on the ground, but his eyes did not appear to focus on it. He looked like he was somewhere else, and Jon was afraid he could venture quite an accurate guess as to where that might be. “I see.”

“I just- what if Tim hadn’t come in and seen them?” Martin’s hand, resting on his knee, twitched toward Jon’s and then jerked back abruptly enough that Jon could practically see his own words echoing through Martin’s mind. _Not during work hours._ He swallowed tightly as Martin went on, “Or what if it had been while you were sleeping, or something? I don’t like that, Jon. That was too close.”

Jon let out a long breath and sat back, leaning against the wall. “You would have me go back to my flat?”

“I mean, maybe. Maybe. It might be safer.”

“And what about you, then? The Institute still poses all the same threats to you as it does to me.”

A flash of something pained crossed Martin’s face, lips tugging downward. He grimaced and seemed to deliberate for a moment, then said, “I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Work hours, Jon decided, were entirely negligible. He reached to bridge the gap between them and closed Martin’s hand in his firmly enough that the skin around his fingertips paled slightly. Martin looked up, startled, at the touch, and Jon returned his gaze with purposeful ferocity. “If you think I’m about to leave you to face this alone,” he said, “then you have misjudged me very severely indeed.”

Predictably, endearingly, Martin went furiously red. He made a sound like a laugh that was more feeling than meaning and said, “I guess I saw that coming.”

For a senseless instant, the situation resolved itself in his mind with perfect clarity. Jon already had his mouth open to speak when it occurred to him that things were, frankly, different between him and Martin than they had been in his moment of impulsivity when he’d offered Martin a place on his sofa bed. There was a certain pace at which these things should be taken, he told himself sensibly, and living together should really be reserved for a later time when not under immediate duress. Instead, he said, “I appreciate your concern, Martin, truly. But there is every likelihood that this was a fluke. In the event that it does happen again, I have my extinguisher easily within reach. I’ll be just fine.”

“You’d better be.” Martin made a valiant attempt at a smile. It was, to put it delicately, one of the more unconvincing expressions Jon had seen. “Be careful, okay? Keep your guard up, and all that. I wouldn’t like to have to use my corkscrew.”

Jon’s own face twisted at that. “Believe me when I say I’d like to avoid that as well.”

“I should bloody well hope so.”

An uneasy silence fell, in which Martin laid his other hand on top of Jon’s so it was entirely enveloped and squeezed periodically, as if reminding himself that Jon was still there.

Jon’s eyes fell back on the unsightly stain. “Perhaps,” he said, “I could convince you to help me move a filing cabinet on top of that.”

Martin’s laugh was strained but genuine. He stood with a groan, tugging Jon’s hand along to lift him to his feet. “I could do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you may have noticed there's a final chapter count now! I'm going to err on the side of caution and say it's subject to change, but... there it is. It's a weird feeling. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter more than I did - this one fought me every step of the way for some reason. See you again in two weeks (January 14th), and happy new year!! :)
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: worms (no infestation), some manipulative behavior on Elias's part.  
> As always, please let me know if there's something you'd like me to warn for that I'm not already doing!!


	22. You Know That I Am Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the nature of the relationship of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood, and their future accommodations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from Why Am I the One by fun. 
> 
> Also, I'm so so happy to say that I get to link to another amazing piece of art for this fic!! Thank you so much to avemarts on tumblr for drawing [this lovely piece](https://avemarts.tumblr.com/post/640449862354223104/lil-jonmartin-inspired-by-a-home-for-what-loves)!! :))
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes. Enjoy! :)

“You know,” Martin said slowly, weighing his words carefully in one hand and his mug in the other, “It does get quite cold down here, still. More than you’d expect, considering it’s practically summer now.”

He didn’t look up as he spoke, focusing instead on the rhythmic bobbing motion of his teabag. The back of his neck prickled with the awareness that a gaze was being turned on him, but instead of looking back he leaned on the counter in a way that hopefully radiated nonchalance.

Somewhere to his left, Jon gave a small derisive laugh. Martin resisted the temptation to turn and see if it had coaxed a smile onto his face. “It’s hardly surprising that this glorified basement is prone to drafts. I suppose we can only be grateful that we aren’t being roasted alive. Ha- like frogs in a boiling pot, d’you know that analogy? We’d stay down here long enough that eventually we’d just be cooked and never even know it.”

“Or frozen,” Martin said reasonably. It wasn’t actually _that_ cold in the break room; he tended to run warm anyway, and he could warm himself from the inside with tea if the temperature outside was lacking, but Jon was much slighter and much less given to seeking out warmth, and Martin paid too much attention to Jon not to notice the periodic shivers running through him even in June. He eased himself into the spot on the sofa Jon had left unoccupied with a sigh. “I’d say Elias should invest in some proper heating down here, but that’s probably a lost cause if he’s taken so long to get even a fire system up.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Jon agreed. “Although I did receive an email saying that apparently, the carbon dioxide system’s due to be installed this weekend. So that’s a small victory, at least.”

“Mm, that is good.” Martin nodded into his mug. “We’ll be safe, if not warm. That’s something.”

When Martin lowered his tea again, he found Jon watching him with narrowed eyes. “What are you getting at here?”

Martin’s traitorous eyes flicked to the side as a small, guilty smile spread across his face. He turned his gaze back quickly before Jon could follow his line of sight to the woolen bundle on the seat of a nearby chair, carefully tucked under the table out of sight. “Nothing! I’m just saying, it can get a bit-”

“Cold, yes. You’re being awfully persistent about that.”

“Am I?” He met Jon’s suspicious look with affected disinterest, but quickly cracked under the weight of the skepticism Jon was projecting at him. There was a good reason he’d been trying to avoid looking directly at Jon during this whole endeavor, he thought with a private smile. “Okay,” he conceded. “Hypothetically, how would you feel about it if I suggested a way to handle the cold in the archives?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed further. “I would ask what this suggestion was, and why you’re so insistent about it.”

Martin leaned over and snagged the jumper he had stashed on the seat of the chair, holding it up for Jon to see. “Not insistent. Just making a friendly suggestion.”

Jon's lips parted in a silent _oh_. With a sort of absent expression, he reached out and brushed his fingertips against the material. “I just gave this back to you,” he said. “And now you’re…”

“Giving it back, yeah.” When Jon’s hand wrapped loosely around the jumper, Martin released it and watched Jon’s eyes widen in surprise as it dropped into his lap. “If you want it. You held onto it for so long, I figure you must miss it. Miss – having something warm to wear, that is,” he tacked on hurriedly as a flash of apprehension crossed Jon’s face.

Jon frowned. “Not as much as you’ll miss it, I’m sure.”

“’Course not.” Martin waved him off. “Like I said, I didn’t even know it was gone until you gave it back.”

Slowly, eyes trained on Martin’s warily as if waiting for him to take it back, Jon slipped his arms into the jumper and tugged it over his head. His hair came out the top slightly disheveled, and the neckline was wide around the collar of his work shirt. The motion with which Jon situated the sleeves and tugged at the collar was distinctly practiced, and Martin shoved back the senseless impulse to bundle him in a mound of blankets and keep him there forever. He could feel his face contorting into some kind of terrible, almost pained expression, but there was absolutely no alternative when he was being confronted with the crime of Jon withholding this sight from him for so long.

“You washed it,” Jon said after a long beat of silence. There was an undercurrent of accusation in his voice.

Martin might have been seated, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that a rug had been pulled out from under him. “Yeah? I wore it once after you gave it back, figured that would be best.”

Jon hummed a low note of what sounded like displeasure, and Martin fought a sudden onset of shortness of breath.

“This is very kind,” Jon said, eyes dropping down. His hands lay in his lap entirely obscured by the heavy sleeves but for his fingertips, which curled gently into the wool. “But I can’t accept it.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well, it’s hardly fair to you.” Jon’s voice had gone businesslike again in that way that Martin was learning could be used to cover up all manner of emotions. “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice an item of clothing just because my attire isn’t sufficient for the archives. That doesn’t benefit you in any way.”

Martin nearly laughed. “Is _that_ what you’re worried about? Look, if I miss it, I can always ask for it back, yeah? And for the record, I absolutely consider it a benefit to see my-” He stiffened, eyes blowing wide as his words caught up to him, and carefully regrouped. “To see you wearing my jumper, I mean. It suits you.”

He took a large gulp of tea to hide his blush behind the mug, and to his dismay, when he lowered it Jon was watching him with pursed lips and academic interest. 

Jon leaned forward slightly. “Finish that sentence.”

There was a large part of Martin that did in fact want to finish that sentence, but the other, more sensible part of him unequivocally did not. It had been a few weeks, yes, but there was no telling what casual assumption would cross the line into _too much too fast._ He had scarcely cleared the hurdle of sharing his clothes; he’d hardly been planning on addressing this subject now. “I did finish it, I thought,” he said shakily. “It suits you. That’s all.”

It was far from his most convincing lie, as was evident in the way Jon’s eyebrows immediately rose. “That’s _not_ all.” Jon’s eyes were dark and intent and may as well have contained their own centers of gravity, for all that Martin was able to pull himself away from them. “Your what, Martin?”

Martin absently leaned away to place his mug on the table and wrung his hands together, aiming a pleading look at Jon. Jon, in response, heaved a sigh that was so put-upon as to be almost theatrical and shuffled in close, tucking his legs flush with Martin’s and wedging his shoulder snugly into the crook of Martin’s arm. It was, Martin was fairly certain, a tactical move that he absolutely dreaded the implications of.

His arm curled up and around Jon’s shoulder of its own volition, thumb rubbing idly back and forth as he fought to keep his face in check. He kept his eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Jon’s forehead as he said, “Um. Depends, really. What are we? Or, I guess, what do you want to be?”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jon said plainly, pursing his lips. “I think I’d rather like to be whatever it was you were about to call me, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Christ, Jon,” Martin choked out, heart thudding a wild rhythm. “ _If it’s all the same to me?_ Have you secretly been smooth this entire time?”

Jon pulled back, out of the circle of Martin’s arm enough to look him in the eye with open disapproval. “I absolutely have not.”

A laugh shocked its way out of Martin, and he took Jon’s tiny, pleased smile as a sign to tug him closer again. Jon came easily, melting into his arms and resting his forehead on Martin’s shoulder. The new angle perfectly afforded Martin the opportunity to press a kiss to the top of his head, practically bursting with the feeling of it. “I was going to call you my boyfriend,” he murmured into Jon’s hair. The words came easier without eyes on him. Nevertheless, there was a significant chance Jon could feel Martin’s heartbeat against his cheek. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like that, though.”

Instead of drawing back or scoffing or replying _that seems a little juvenile, doesn’t it,_ Jon took an almost imperceptible sharp breath and snaked his arm up and around Martin’s side. His fingers pressed soft divots into Martin’s jumper. For a long moment, he said nothing at all.

“It’s fine if you don’t want that,” Martin said, still with his cheek firmly against the top of Jon’s head. It was a jarringly immediate sort of intimacy to feel Jon’s hair rasp against his face with the movements of his jaw, to feel the sharp press of Jon’s glasses on his collarbone. He could get used to this, he thought guiltily, and then the guilt evaporated under the searing heat of elation as it occurred to him that maybe he _could._ Evidently Jon wasn’t going anywhere.

There was a sort of incoherent mumbling against his jumper, and when Martin made a questioning noise, Jon cleared his throat. “I’d like that,” he said, barely more audibly than before. His face pressed even more firmly into Martin’s chest. There would probably be little braided impressions on his cheek when he pulled back. “I think that’s perfectly acceptable,” Jon went on, giving Martin just enough time to be faintly amused at the formality of the words being mashed directly into his jumper before adding, “I would also be amenable to partner, if that term appeals to you.”

Martin went very still and swallowed. _This is Jon, my partner,_ he thought experimentally, and immediately found that his throat had gone dangerously tight. For all his earlier worries, now he was the one thinking that perhaps _boyfriend_ did sound a bit juvenile, compared to _partner._ There was a sort of implied longevity to that term which Martin was not willing to examine in-depth for fear of losing control of his faculties completely.

Jon shifted his head just enough to turn his face up to him, though he likely didn’t have a view of anything more than the underside of Martin’s chin. His breath bloomed warm on Martin’s neck. “Is that something you’d like too?”

It was far from an outlandish question, but Martin’s heart clenched so fiercely in his chest that under other circumstances it might have been cause for concern. “Yeah,” he said, strangled. “Yeah, I would.”

It could have been his imagination, but the slight movement against his chest might have been Jon smiling. He chose to believe it was.

* * *

Martin was making a point of not looking at the clock out of spite for the early hour, but by his estimate it might have been closing in on five in the morning when Jon asked him quite bluntly for a lesson on, in his own words, _how to make tea that doesn’t taste like everything but the literal leaves have been boiled out._

Much as he wished it wasn’t the case, he had to admit that it was nice to share a space with someone whose insomniac tendencies lined up so neatly with his own, and particularly who wouldn’t ask too many questions if Martin spent more time absently scratching at his arms than usual. It had been a particularly vivid dream that had forced him awake that night, but keeping his hands busy was always a safe bet, and Jon sleep-tousled and still in his oversize jumper was an extremely welcome distraction.

“Right, so, step one,” Martin said, giving Jon a cheeky grin. “I’m sure you can handle the boiling water part.”

Jon turned from his task to give Martin the driest look he’d ever been on the receiving end of. “You put so much faith in me.” He scowled at the kettle and muttered under his breath, “Though considering the only two steps are boiling water and inserting the teabag, perhaps it’s undeserved.”

Martin swallowed a laugh. “There’s a bit more to it than that. Put the kettle on, that’s the easiest part.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage under your expert tutelage.”

Making a valiant effort not to preen, Martin said, “You might do. S’ just boiling water and timing, really.”

There was a _click_ and a faint humming noise as Jon turned on the kettle. “Well, that’s step one done. I am capable of making my own tea, you know. I do it with some regularity.”

Martin hummed. “I know. Last time I saw you do it, though, you complained about how bitter it was the whole time.”

“It was drinkable. My point stands.”

“ _Drinkable.”_

“Drinkable,” Jon said agreeably. He opened a cupboard. “What type are we using? I think our Institute-sanctioned options are green tea and chamomile.”

“Ugh, really?” Martin peered over Jon’s shoulder and found two sad-looking boxes crammed into the corner of the otherwise empty cupboard. “Well, chamomile’s out unless you want me sleeping all day. I need something with caffeine.”

Jon made a small bitten-off noise, like he had decided too late to try and curb the distaste in his voice. “Green, then.”

“Green,” Martin confirmed. “Unless…”

With a breath of a laugh, Jon said, “Don’t tell me you’ve got extra tea secreted away somewhere.”

Martin pressed his lips together firmly, willing his smile away, and raised an eyebrow. “Wait here a second. Keep an eye on the kettle.”

“You’re not serious.” There was disbelief and a smile in Jon’s voice.

“Just wait!”

It was probably irreparably crushed by now, but Martin was almost positive he’d rescued a box of his preferred black tea from his flat weeks and weeks ago. If he wasn’t mistaken, it would be buried in a deep corner of his duffel bag. It would also, with any luck, have the caffeine he needed to kick the dregs of exhaustion still weighing him down.

Document storage, as ever, was pitch dark save for the wedge of light that spilled in through the open door. Had he been alone, he might have considered dropping back into the cot for another brief try at sleep before work started; that was certainly where his feet, operating on autopilot, tried to lead him. Instead, though, he dropped to his knees beside the cot and began rummaging through his bag, ignoring the soothing press of the dark. Any sleep he managed now would be too soon interrupted, and besides, he had a terrible tea maker to educate.

The box of tea was easy enough to find. In truth, it was more of a challenge to force himself to his feet again afterward. Martin made his way back to the door cautiously, eyes on the ground in search of any files or detritus that might trip him in the low light from the hallway.

It was in this slow approach that Martin’s eye caught on a glint of silver.

His first thought was an absent, resigned _Christ, not again._ Then his need for caffeine immediately resolved itself as his stomach dropped and he stumbled backward, a panicked yelp bursting out of him. His breath came in ragged pants and his heart pounded, deafening and quick, as he rallied his courage and lunged forward, crushing the worm underfoot. It was a horrible sensation under his socked foot, just as it had been the first time he’d crushed an intruding worm in his flat – he recoiled instantly as it burst wetly under his heel, wild-eyed as he scanned for more.

It was only a few feet to the light switch, but Martin still peered into the shadows with trepidation as he went to flick it on, remembering vividly the worm that had somehow _jumped_ at him in Vittery’s basement. For a few moments after the light turned on, revealing no additional worms, he just leaned heavily against the doorway and caught his breath.

Fuck. _Fuck,_ he didn’t like that it was in the room where he slept at all. What was he doing still letting Jon sleep in his office where they’d found _three_ worms, anyway? What was he even still doing at the _Institute?_ He could get Jon out, he could find another job-

Martin heaved a shuddering sigh. No, he couldn’t. Jon wasn’t likely to leave anytime in the foreseeable future, and he needed a constant source of income if he wanted to pay the bills for his mother’s home. The most he could do was make things as bearable as possible here, and maybe start quietly searching for a job with decent pay where he _wasn’t_ repeatedly assaulted by impossible horrors.

He steeled himself and surveyed the room, particularly the shiny smudge of worm remains on the floor. Wherever it had come from must have been close at hand; document storage was even further from the Institute’s front entrance than Jon’s office was. That was a problem he could do something about. Former mission abandoned, Martin strode back to his cot and dug out a pair of hand towels, eyeing the room’s solitary ceiling vent with malice and determination.

When Martin returned to the break room some minutes later, Jon turned to him with visible relief. “Can you over-boil water? I’m afraid it’s already-” He broke off, relief dissolving into mild alarm. “Martin.”

Martin looked down at himself. He wasn’t too visibly disheveled, he thought, outside of the box of tea which hadn’t exactly had its condition improved by being dropped on the ground and possibly stepped on. There must have been something in his face that had Jon abandoning the kettle entirely with a stormy expression.

“I got the tea,” Martin said with a thin attempt at brightness. “And, uh. There was also a worm. In document storage.”

_“Martin,”_ Jon said again, sounding almost pained. “God, I’m sorry. When you took so long, I should have known-”

Despite himself, Martin smiled shakily. “It’s fine, I’m fine, Jon. It was just one, but after that I figured I’d stop up the vent just in case.”

Jon blew out a long breath and raised a hand to cup Martin’s elbow. “Perhaps that chamomile would have been better after all,” he said. “Seems like we could do with something soothing now, doesn’t it?”

The laugh that tore from Martin’s throat felt sharp, but it shaved the edge off the adrenaline still thrumming through his fingertips. “You’re doing fine on your own,” he said, watching Jon’s lips twitch and press together with muted gratification.

Jon ducked his head, voice soft and verging on fragile. “We’ll stick with the black tea then. You went to all that trouble to get it.”

Martin smiled. “That was the easy part, really.”

Despite his promise to educate Jon on the finer points of tea-making, when Martin returned to the countertop he found that neither he nor Jon seemed to have much to say. He lined up two mugs and looked at Jon meaningfully, but Jon just gave him a sidelong glance and said, “Go ahead.”

The motions of preparation were practically second nature to Martin by this point, soothing in their familiarity. Jon could learn perfectly well from watching if that was what he wanted, he told himself as he worked silently, acutely aware of Jon’s attention on his hands. By the time he pushed one of the mugs over to Jon, he felt properly settled back in his body, no longer buzzing with the high of adrenaline in his veins.

“Thank you,” Jon said, lifting the mug to his lips. “Oh, this is nice.”

Martin smiled and took a sip of his own tea, letting the heat seep into his bones. Jon appeared to be doing the same.

Several moments passed in companionable quiet before Jon, with the air of a confession, said, “You can’t stay here.”

Martin blinked. What little warmth he had absorbed from the tea was abruptly shot through with cold. “What?”

“You can’t,” Jon repeated. He took a long breath and then met Martin’s eyes with a stern sort of candor. “I think you should come stay at my flat.”

“Your flat,” Martin echoed numbly. “I- it was just one, Jon, and I blocked up the place where I’m pretty sure it came from. You don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do.” Jon’s tone brooked no argument. “I should have made good on that offer long ago. Leaving it unfulfilled now would be unforgivable.”

“Oh, _unforgivable_ seems a bit strong, doesn’t it?”

Jon crossed his arms defiantly. “It does not,” he said. “As your direct superior, as your friend, as your-” his voice lowered and lost some of its fervor as it went, shedding barbs in favor of bashful fidgeting- “ _partner,_ leaving you in a situation where you’re exposed to this kind of danger would be irresponsible at best, reprehensible at worst. I won’t have it.”

And then he looked at Martin expectantly, evenly, as though he hadn’t spent every moment of his last several sentences slowly and systematically plucking at the precise threads it would take to make him unravel. Martin swallowed thickly.

“Does this mean you won’t sleep in your office either?”

“I suppose.” Jon sipped at his tea, a trace of something unsure surfacing in his eyes for the first time. “It wouldn’t make much sense for me to accompany you there and then return to the Institute alone.”

Martin gave him a slightly incredulous look. “Right,” he said. “Not to mention we found more worms in your office the other day than you’re using as a reason to get me out of here, Jon. I can’t believe-” He stopped, giving Jon a look he hoped was firm enough to convey the depth of his sincerity, and tried again. “As long as you don’t stay here alone all night… yeah. I’d like that. Thanks.”

“I do have some self-preservation instincts,” Jon said long-sufferingly, and cut off Martin’s noise of protest with a forbidding look. He sighed. “The issue just didn’t seem quite so pressing when it was contained to myself.”

The image of Jon keeping vigil on his cot in the dark, waiting for danger to inevitably rear its head, refusing to acknowledge the risk because it affected only himself, left Martin with the singular sensation of his heart being slowly and deliberately torn in two like a scrap of paper. In lieu of pulling Jon in close to smother the displeased frown tugging at his lips, Martin clutched his mug more tightly, willing the tea’s usual soothing effect to take place.

“Maybe you should consider staying at your flat after tonight, too,” he said in a flailing attempt to stitch the pieces of his heart back together. “I… I won’t sleep well knowing you’re in a room where there might still be worms.”

Jon’s eyebrows drew together in equal parts bewilderment and alarm. “I rather thought that was implied.”

For a moment, Martin just stood very still, feeling quite like a pot on the verge of boiling over, ready to spill all his contents indiscriminately into the space between them. “Implied,” he said. “That’s- that’s good. You’re done sleeping here, then?”

“As are you, if I have anything to say about it,” Jon said. Martin’s heart kicked violently against his ribcage as Jon went on, “You can hardly chastise me for not removing myself from the situation and then do the same yourself. Honestly, Martin.”

“Right. Right, okay.” Martin’s head was buzzing faintly, which he decided was the effect of the caffeine kicking in and not of the significance of what was happening. “So that means, when I come over tonight…” He trailed off, looking to Jon for guidance.

“You may as well come for the weekend,” Jon supplied. “I can make up the sofa again, if that’s alright with you. It’s fairly comfortable, and you ought not to stay here while they’re installing the carbon dioxide anyway.” All this was said more to Jon’s mug than to Martin. “Beyond that… I’m not sure. I won’t deny the convenience of sleeping here, and chances are I will sleep here again, but you’re certainly not bound to where I sleep.”

“I won’t stay in your flat if you’re not there,” Martin said immediately. This, finally, was a spot of solid ground for him to stand on.

Jon seemed to agonize quietly for a moment before saying, “I really would rather you did, to be honest. It’s not safe here.”

“Christ, Jon.” Martin did set down his mug then, instead placing his hands on either side of Jon’s shoulders and trailing them down his arms. “I’ll sleep there if you do, okay? Or- anywhere away from the Institute, I can find something else if you don’t want me there all the time, but I won’t have you sending me somewhere safe while you stay. Absolutely not.”

Some of the bravado seemed to drain from Jon’s frame, whether at the touch or Martin’s words, and he let out a long breath. “Alright.” His voice was soft. “Don’t look for anywhere else. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you there.”

Martin gave him a faint smile. “Safety in numbers, right?”

Jon caught Martin’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers with all the precision and care usually reserved for antiques or old manuscripts. “Safety in numbers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed the fluff, because I may or may not have some capital-P Plans lined up >:) For once, I finished this chapter before the day I posted it, so I already have part of the next one written, and I honestly think it might end up being my favorite chapter so far. Can't wait to share that with you in two weeks, on January 28th!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: canon-typical worms (just one)


	23. Stay Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a remarkably bad week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This certainly is a chapter! I hope you like it!! The title this week is from C'mon by p!atd and fun.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! This chapter is more intense than usual, so I'd definitely recommend checking those out. Stay safe :)

“I need someone to make a call,” Jon said without preamble as he shoved into the archives proper. The door, recoiling from the momentum of his entry, slammed behind him. “Tim – Tim? Do we have any contact information from the Merritt case?”

Tim blinked up at him, clearly caught off guard. He began to shuffle through the heap of papers on his desk. “Uh, yeah, probably. Just a mo, let me…”

“This is _time sensitive,_ Tim,” Jon said through gritted teeth. His fingers twitched, itching to dig through the haphazard stack himself. This was too _slow._ If he didn’t take matters into his own hands it would be too late.

“Is everything okay?” Sasha asked from the desk adjacent to Tim’s, slowly rising from her chair. From the way Martin’s brow was knitted, it was clear she had voiced exactly the thought also running through his head.

Jon’s nails dug into his palms, but he only registered the sting in a distant sort of way. “Hardly,” he snapped. “Did any of you read that statement? We have a possible unmarked Leitner, and it’s still in that woman’s possession – who knows what will have happened by the time we call her?”

Tim stilled for a moment, expression slackening with horror, but before Jon could snap at him to pick up the pace, he muttered, “ _Shit,”_ and redoubled his efforts.

Overflowing with restless energy, Jon paced the length of the room. His hair fell in his face; he’d run his hands through it so many times while reading the statement that it was quite disheveled. Just one more thing spiraling out of his control.

“Okay,” Sasha said, making her way around her desk to where Jon was pacing with her hands outstretched placatingly. Jon bristled on principle. He did not want to be placated. Sasha ignored this, tone firm and level. “Possible Leitner, you said? What makes you think it could be one?”

“I’ve seen enough of these bloody things to recognize the signs, haven’t I?” Jon’s voice was as tightly coiled as his body, arms crossed and fingers squeezing bruises into his elbows.

Martin stood as well and reached over to him. Concern was written plainly on every line of his face as he covered Jon’s hands with his own and tugged him over to his desk. The collective image of the cardigan flung over the back of the chair, the handwritten notes scattered across the desk, the little paper calendar Martin had in the corner of his workspace, all seemed so alarmingly mundane that Jon nearly recoiled from them. The sight was terribly incongruous with the unnatural horrors reeling through his mind.

“Sit,” Martin said firmly, pushing down on his arms to guide him in the right direction. “Why don’t you tell us about it instead of tearing yourself to shreds, yeah?”

Sitting made Jon want to crawl out of his skin. Tim was a frantic blur of motion in his periphery, actively searching and helping and making a difference. Martin’s chair, in comparison, was almost claustrophobic, out of reach but not out of sight of any useful information.

“What did the book do in the statement?” Sasha prompted, and Jon’s hackles raised involuntarily.

“The exact effect wasn’t clear,” he said. “It was only tangentially related to the statement, which is why I think there may still be time – a book of fairy tales, with disturbingly realistic illustrations that seemed to change when the pages were turned and had a sort of- of hypnotic effect on the reader.” He swallowed thickly and curled one of his hands into a fist. “The woman purchased it as a gift for her daughter. Six years old.”

“No nameplate?” Sasha asked, though when Jon looked up at her she was pale and drawn.

As Jon shook his head, Martin’s hand landed on his shoulder and applied just enough pressure to keep him from actively vibrating out of his skin. He flashed Martin a glance, but it might have conveyed more frantic energy than gratitude.

“But that doesn’t mean anything, necessarily,” Jon said. “The nameplate- I assume that isn’t what gives these books their power. It’s just a mark they all happen to bear. Who knows how many are equally as powerful and simply floating around unmarked?”

He craned his neck to gauge Tim’s progress sorting through the mess of files on his desk – there was a low anxious muttering coming from that side of the room, which did nothing to quell Jon’s own nerves – but Martin stepped deliberately into his line of sight and caught his eye. There was a spark of urgency there, too, but alongside it was the same sort of steadiness Martin always seemed to bring, even in the most disastrous of circumstances.

“We are going to get there in time,” Martin said in a tone of voice that said he would not be entertaining arguments. “You hear me? Those people are going to be just fine.”

“You don’t _know_ that,” Jon protested anyway, but any further catastrophizing he might have dredged up was cut off by Tim’s triumphant shout.

“Got it! Hang on, Mrs. Merritt, help is on – the – way.” Tim punctuated his words with sharp jabs to the keypad of his phone, and moments later it was to his ear and ringing. He flashed a thumbs-up in Jon’s direction, and all Jon could do was to nod weakly.

There was an eternal, agonizing pause as the phone rang.

“Tell her not to touch it,” Jon said numbly into the heavy silence. His hand ached; distantly, he was aware that he was gripping the armrest of Martin’s chair as though he might fall off the face of the planet without it. “Or to read it, or- or look at it if she can help it. There’s no way we can know what triggers it.”

Tim nodded in acknowledgment, muttering grimly into the receiver. “Come on. Come on. Don’t you _dare_ send me to voicemail, you son of a- _yes!_ Hello, Mrs. Merritt, are you there?”

Only the faintest echoes of an answer were audible from where Jon sat, but the voice sounded neither panicked nor overtly possessed. A small measure of tension drained from Jon's frame, and he forced himself to breathe deeply as Martin gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Yeah, calling from the Magnus Institute,” Tim was saying. “We have a statement here saying you recently bought a book of… what was it? Fairy tales?” He looked to Jon, who nodded in confirmation. “Gotcha, special edition of _Grimms’ Fairy Tales_. Writing that down now. Excellent. Listen, not to alarm you, but we have reason to believe that book may be… cursed? Evil? Um, the terminology is shaky, but we’d like you to avoid it as much as possible. Bring it here, if you can do that without touching it. You can? Great.”

He looked up again and, with his free hand, flashed Jon an OK symbol. Jon was too busy calming his furious heartbeat to even roll his eyes, slumping with relief like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“Wonderful,” Tim said, once again chipper as though he wasn’t conducting a potentially life-saving phone call. “We’ll see you this afternoon, then. Remember, don’t touch it, don’t read it, wrap it in a towel or something. You’ll be just fine. Yes, great. Thanks so much. Bye.”

The quiet that fell after the _click_ of the receiver was thick and cloying, reminiscent of the faint ringing following a catastrophically loud noise. Jon took a deep breath – in through the nose, out through the mouth – and asked hoarsely, “She’s alright, then?”

Tim nodded, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face. He swiveled his chair around to face them, plastering on a bright and clearly exaggerated grin. Jon’s cheeks ached in sympathy. “Whoo, that was exciting! Really got my heart rate up for a second, there. We don’t usually get to do the actual saving bit.”

“No, we don’t,” Jon muttered. If there was any gratification to be had in that small victory, he did not feel it.

* * *

Neither Mrs. Merritt nor her potentially cursed book of fairy tales made an appearance in Jon’s dreams after she delivered the book and gave him a brief statement about it, which was presumably a good sign even if he wasn’t sure to which of them the omen would have applied. The same, however, could not be said for the other statements which made up a rotating cast of nightmares every night without fail. Every dream had him scratching now, not just the fragments of Prentiss that, for lack of a better word, wormed their way between the more standard-fare nightmares. Nights where Jon didn’t wake up with stinging arms and shallow breath were few and far between.

Monday night’s terror featured Melanie King. Jon stood by unmoving in decrepit hospital wings, breathing in dust and tasting blood and watching as every corner she turned brought her closer to the heart of her fear. He tried a few times, halfheartedly, to call out her name or to catch her sleeve, but his feet refused to move and his breath did not stir the air around him, and eventually he sat up quietly in his bed with the peculiar combination of a racing heart and sorrowful resignation.

Normally, he might have taken this development as a sign to head to work early; the sky was just barely shifting from black to grey, so he’d managed a few hours at least, but he could hardly leave Martin alone in his flat. The living room and kitchen were not separated by any doors, so leaving the bedroom at all was out of the question unless he wanted Martin to hear him skulking about from the sofa and lose precious hours of sleep. With a belabored sigh, he settled back down facing the door and willed his eyes to shut.

Tuesday and Wednesday night both featured Naomi Herne. The thought left Jon with a sort of bitter taste in his mouth, but he was at least used to that particular dream. It was easy enough to shrug off, once he’d carved out the imaginary grave dirt from under his nails.

Less digestible was the vision that followed Herne’s nightmare on Wednesday. It couldn’t quite be called a dream, as he had enough of a grasp on consciousness to form coherent thoughts, but this only gave his mind room to twist and warp reality into grotesque proportions. The blurry image of his bedroom door was real, as Martin reminded him several times over when he lurched fully awake with a shout; the hulking, bulbous figure waiting outside it was not.

Thursday night was Melanie King again. Jon didn’t bother trying to sleep again afterward.

* * *

That Friday found Jon more tightly wound up than ever and so deeply immersed in a statement that he didn’t notice his door opening until Martin softly cleared his throat in the threshold. He smiled when Jon caught his eye and raised a manila folder in greeting.

“So, I have good news and… it feels like bad news, but maybe it’ll end up being good after all? Which do you want first?”

Jon considered for a moment. “Good first.”

“Y’know, most people want the bad first so the good can make it better afterward.”

“I thought the bad news was potentially good news. I can’t see what difference it makes.”

Martin walked up to Jon’s desk and produced the first of what turned out to be two folders in his hand. “The good news,” he said as Jon flipped up the cover to reveal a familiar set of notes, “is that Artefact Storage doesn’t think that book’s cursed at all. No clue what kind of tests you have to run to tell that sort of thing, but at least it doesn’t look like we’ve got a Leitner on our hands.”

“Oh.” Jon frowned, grappling with a swell of relief and an equally powerful burst of embarrassment. “So I’ve just made a massive fuss over a perfectly normal book, then.”

Martin shrugged. “I read that statement. It did sound spooky. Uh- cursed,” he corrected with a sheepish smile. “I don’t blame you. Especially since it seems like you’ve had, uh… plenty of experience with this sort of thing.”

Gritting his teeth in what he hoped was an inauspicious way, Jon nodded, tight-lipped. There was no way in hell he was about to go into detail about just how right Martin was. He could already too easily imagine disfigured shadows hovering in the doorway as it was. “And the bad news?”

“Maybe good news,” Martin reminded him, grimacing. The grip he had on the second folder seemed tighter than before. “It could help us, maybe. Hopefully. I almost don’t want to say it, but-” He took a deep breath, and when he let it out, there was steely determination in his eyes. “Sasha found Prentiss’s statement when she was filing a different case away. The- the actual statement Prentiss gave to the Institute before she, uh. Not just a statement about her… after the fact.”

Jon’s stomach turned. “I see.”

“Yeah.” Martin seemed to share his faint queasiness at the thought. “Listen, I- I know you’re going to read it. I probably couldn’t stop you if I tried. But.” With visible reluctance, like he was fighting a repellant magnetic force, Martin placed the folder on the desk. “I skimmed a bit of it,” he said. “It’s… it’s pretty bad, Jon. And all I’m saying is, I think Tim and Sasha would both be happy to take notes on it or summarize or whatever else, if you don’t want to read her actual words.”

“I have to,” Jon said, realizing that it was the truth as the words left his mouth. He had known that Prentiss had given a statement, had idly fantasized about unearthing the kernel of truth it would take to unwind this entire mess, and yet now that the information lay in front of him for the taking, the prospect sat heavy like a stone in his gut. She had been human once. How much of the person she had been was still in there?

Martin sighed. “I thought you might say that. Do you want me to… stay, or?”

Jon forced a smile. Judging by Martin’s expression, it was quite a poor imitation. “Better not. I’ll be recording as I read, and there’s no sense in having both of us present for that.”

Never mind that he’d allowed Tim and Sasha to sit in for the recording of his and Martin’s statement; never mind that he knew Martin would do everything in his power not to affect the tape while offering his support. Jon dreamed about Naomi Herne and Melanie King, about cemeteries and spectres and other people’s demons. Martin’s dreams were always, always about Prentiss. Jon would be damned if he exposed him to this statement, particularly if it was as gruesome as promised. He could do with a bit of variety in his nightmares, himself.

Hesitantly, Martin nodded and retreated, leaving Jon to stare down what was, at a glance, an absolutely mundane manila folder. It was foolish to allow it any degree of control over him, Jon thought decisively, and flipped it open. It was only words on a page, after all. Hardly sinister at all, in the grand scheme of things.

Adamantine resolve aside, he didn’t bother to attempt the recording on his laptop.

Jon clicked on the tape recorder. His introduction flowed out smoothly; he had said some variation of those words dozens of times, and as he rattled off the script he allowed himself to skim over the opening lines of the statement. What he read there made a sharp chill rush up his spine, setting his voice trembling as he said, “Statement begins.”

He took a moment to hope that the door was thick enough to block out specific words from where Martin was doubtless hovering outside. With an unsteady hand, he traced the indents Prentiss’s pen had left in the paper and began to read.

_“I itch all the time.”_

* * *

_“There is a wasps’ nest in my attic,”_ Prentiss had written. Her handwriting, in stark contrast to Jon’s voice, was steady and measured. He had to swallow thickly before reading the final sentence. _“Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.”_

It took Jon two tries to force out the words, "Statement ends," and another two for his shaking hand to hit the right button on the tape recorder. There were notes, supplemental addendums he needed to make, but-

His breaths came in harsh, shallow gasps, and every inch of his body itched as deeply and fiercely as though his bones had been set ablaze. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. He couldn’t move.

On the very edge of the final page of Prentiss’s statement was a dark stain. Maybe coffee. Maybe not. It was a monumental effort to tear his eyes from that stain long enough to seize control of his hands and flip the file shut. Even encased in the bland standard-issue folder, it seemed to stare back at him, daring him to release the terrible corruption lurking inside.

“Jon?” Right on cue, the door opened again, admitting Martin. Jon watched him approach as if from a great distance. His ears were ringing, a constant droning buzz – _not unlike a hive,_ some cruel part of his mind reminded him – and Martin was saying something else, but Jon was too busy trying not to succumb to the thrumming panic to properly register any of it outside the general tone.

His own voice sounded like it was coming from underwater and almost surprised him. He had made the decision to speak, but he felt so distant from his body that it was astonishing that his voice was obeying him at all. “I think I had better lie down,” he said. The ringing in his ears pitched higher. He winced.

There was a pause, and Jon became dizzily aware that he had interrupted Martin, who was now leaning into his field of vision looking distraught and borderline frantic.

“I’m going to lie down,” he repeated, and forced himself to his feet. A moment of recovery, surely, would set him to rights.

Standing, as it turned out, was a task made infinitely harder when one was on the verge of panic-induced unconsciousness. Jon’s legs were distinctly unsteady, but it seemed like a foregone conclusion that he would make it as far as the cot until he blinked and Martin had an iron grip on his biceps, squeezing tightly to keep him from simply slouching to the ground.

Everything was quite difficult to parse for some time after that.

He was standing by his desk, swaying slightly and wincing both at the incessant buzzing in his skull and at the too-tight hold Martin had on his arms, and then he was being settled onto a soft surface and his knees weren’t buckling anymore, and then he was raising a heavy hand to rub at his temple as the ringing in his ears finally began to recede and the ambient sounds around him resolved themselves into a single familiar voice talking in a low timbre.

“-alright,” Martin was saying, softly but with some urgency. “You’re okay, you’re okay, just keep breathing, you’re alright, I promise-”

“I’m alright,” Jon confirmed once he found his voice. His throat was as dry as though it had been days, not minutes, since he’d last spoken. Something seized almost convulsively around his shoulders, and he looked to the side to find that he was leaning quite heavily on Martin’s arm.

“ _Fucking_ Christ, Jon,” Martin said. He sounded considerably more shaken than he appeared; the solidity of his arm was, Jon realized, probably the only reason he was doing anything comparable to sitting upright. When he tried to take some of his weight off, Martin just shook his head and held fast. “Yeah, I don’t think so. You just almost went dead weight on me – I’m keeping you right here for at least another minute.”

Jon did not resist. In the absence of the oppressive ringing in his ears, a bone-deep itch was setting back in, and he could pretend for a moment that Martin kept it at bay. “I didn’t expect it to be quite so… overwhelming,” he said. His fingers twitched.

“I shouldn’t have let you read it.”

“I wouldn’t have let you stop me.”

Martin didn’t reply, though he did tentatively loosen his grip on Jon’s arm, experimentally at first and then with more confidence. His hand slid to Jon’s back instead and rested there for a moment. “Stay here,” he said eventually. “I’m going to get you some water. Don’t move.”

“Martin,” Jon said, grasping at his hand as it pulled gently away. It wasn’t quite what he had meant to say, but the proper words were nowhere in sight and Martin looked at him understandingly enough that the meaning of it seemed to have come across.

Carefully, Martin extracted his hand. “Jon,” he replied. He cupped Jon’s cheek briefly, then stepped out of the room with one more lingering glance and a reassuring smile.

With Martin gone, the residual horror of the statement washed over Jon with all the sweeping force and mercy of a tidal wave. It was… worse, somehow, knowing that there was a festering sort of love that bound Prentiss to her worms. Even more bone-chilling was the fact that on paper, the promise that the hive had made Prentiss was inviting. Soothing, even. Had he not known the circumstances involved, Jon might have thought the idea of unconditional, all-consuming love and belonging was… appealing. He wondered if Prentiss could feel any pain at all, or if it was all just sickly-sweet adoration.

By the time Martin reappeared with a mug in hand and Tim in tow, Jon’s hands were clawed into fists in the blankets with the effort of keeping his nails from tearing into skin.

“Okay?” Martin asked immediately upon entering his line of sight. Jon nodded, swallowing down the edges of panic threatening to reemerge.

“Just normal itching. The statement, uh. Got under my skin, as it were.”

Martin hummed, face twisting with sympathy, and offered him the mug. Jon untwisted his hands from the sheets to take it. “This is water,” Martin said. “Not tea. No glasses left, sorry.”

“My fault, I think,” Tim said. “I had some of the orange juice from the fridge in a glass this morning- whoa, hey.” This last part was said with arms outstretched to Jon, who had decided he didn’t much like being the only one seated. “No standing for people who just got done passing out. Come on, boss.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Jon grumbled, but sat back down. He was still rather light-headed, not that he was about to admit that.

“No,” Martin agreed. “But you are going to take the rest of the day off. You need to have a rest, after that.”

Jon was already shaking his head before Martin finished his sentence. “The workday’s almost over anyway.”

“Exactly,” Tim said. “So you won’t be missing anything when you go home. I’m with Martin on this one.”

“I can’t just take unannounced time off. That’s irresponsible.”

“What’s irresponsible is staying at work when you know you’re in no state to do so,” Tim countered. Jon didn’t miss the grateful look Martin flashed him, but before he could argue, Tim went on, “Besides, when was the last time you even took a day off?”

“Prentiss doesn’t count,” Martin added, neatly cutting off Jon’s attempt to say just that.

He counted backward. “Um. March.”

Martin visibly deflated. “Oh. Okay, that’s not so bad. You should still take today, though- what?” Tim was elbowing Martin insistently, and when Martin turned to look at him he raised an eyebrow before turning a meaningful look on Jon. Several emotions passed over Martin’s face in rapid succession, confusion melting into realization melting into alarm. “Jon,” he said. “ _This_ March?”

Jon’s grimace was clearly answer enough, judging by Martin’s absolutely appalled expression.

“Right,” Martin said. “Okay. Let me take you home.”

* * *

In a stroke of either overwhelming luck or misfortune – he hadn’t decided yet – one of the files Jon had snagged as he was ushered unceremoniously out of his office was Prentiss’s. It sat forebodingly on his kitchen table, practically seething with malicious energy and setting Jon’s skin crawling every time he so much as thought about opening it again.

Martin, with impossible patience, sat on the sofa that had acted as his bed for the last week and watched him pace.

“It wasn’t even _helpful,”_ Jon griped, sounding far more plaintive than he would have liked. His pacing had taken him to the mouth of the hallway, where the statement lay just out of his view. “We still know nothing about how to face Prentiss, what motivates her, what we can use against her – there was _nothing.”_

“I know.” Martin’s expression was as regretful as though he’d sorted through Prentiss’s file to conceal any useful information himself. “Why don’t you come sit down, yeah? You won’t do anything but wear yourself out running around like that.”

Jon shook his head, striding back to the file and pulling his hands back at the last second. His nails dug painfully into the palms of his hands, but they could at least do less damage there than elsewhere. He had gotten in the habit of cutting them nearly down to the quick after a nightmare so grisly that even covering his hands to sleep hadn’t spared him from waking with bloody marks all over his arms, but still there was enough of an edge to them to leave behind a wicked sting.

“I can’t,” he said through a shuddering and shallow breath. “I can’t sit down, I can’t even open the _bloody_ file, I can’t stop her from _coming back,_ Martin. I can’t- there has to be something in this file, but there’s _nothing_ , I _can’t-”_

Martin was standing now, brow furrowed and eyes mournful as he drew closer. “Jon.”

“I don’t know where else to _look.”_ Jon’s voice broke, and one of his hands unconsciously rose to circle his opposite wrist and clutch it to his chest, nails digging in there too.

So gently it almost hurt, Martin laid a land on Jon’s wrist and tugged his hands apart. Jon’s grip was tight enough that his fingers left stinging streaks of red in their wake, and Martin rubbed over these with his thumbs as Jon clenched his jaw with the effort of not yanking his hands back and scratching until his skin was raw and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that nothing lived underneath it.

“Let me help you.”

Whether Martin was referring to the file or the anxious curling and uncurling of Jon’s fingers was unclear, but it didn’t matter. A small, choked noise pushed its way out of Jon’s throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, overcome, and nodded.

“What can I do?” Martin pulled Jon’s hands to his chest and anchored him there, pressing his palms in so firmly that Jon could feel his heartbeat steadily plodding away even through the thick weave of his jumper. “Anything you need, darling, just tell me.”

Jon swallowed, mouth gone dry at the endearment. He wasn’t sure if the lightheadedness was residual panic or overwhelming fondness anymore. “Don’t let me scratch, please,” he said, wincing at how raw and broken his voice sounded. “Prentiss, she- her _skin,_ Martin, she couldn’t stop- _please_ don’t let me.”

Martin gathered him close in response, pulling him in by the shoulders and tucking him in to his chest. “Alright,” he soothed, the vibrations of his voice rumbling under Jon’s cheek. He was entirely enveloped, arms still flush with Martin’s torso and pinned too tightly to scratch.

The furious itching remained, though, and his fingers gave a futile twitch, tingling with the need to dig nails into skin but getting nowhere. Martin tightened his arms at the movement. Jon couldn’t move at all, not without properly struggling against Martin’s grip, and for a moment the desperation overwhelmed him so completely that an awful sound like a dry sob burst from his chest, muffled against Martin’s body.

“Oh, _Jon.”_ Martin sounded heartbroken. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

In lieu of a response, Jon pressed his face more firmly into Martin’s shoulder, as though he could crawl inside and live there forever. Breathing in Martin’s detergent and faint underlying scent was comforting for a fraction of a moment, until the thought of _crawling inside Martin_ and _living there_ fully registered and sent a violent shudder coursing through his entire body, along with a renewed burst of itching and skin-crawling.

When Martin rubbed a comforting hand firmly up and down Jon’s spine, he flinched so hard it nearly unbalanced them both, skin prickling with the seething wrongness of movement.

_“Don’t,”_ Jon said urgently as Martin loosened his grip and made to pull away. He pushed himself more firmly into Martin and relaxed infinitesimally when the snug pressure of his arms returned, albeit more carefully, and turned his head to seek out the soothing metronome of Martin’s heart. Into Martin’s chest, he said, “Just the moving is – too much. Too much like-” He broke off with a noise of disgust low in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Okay,” Martin said, calmly as if he wasn’t currently holding a mess of pieces together in a vaguely human shape. “That’s fine. We can just stay right here.”

With deliberate care, Martin’s hands lifted off Jon’s back and resettled, one on the small of his back and one on the nape of his neck, with as little friction as possible. The pressure remained firm even as Jon shuddered and twitched, bouts of horror wracking his body, and every one of his senses was filled with _Martin._

An incalculable amount of time later, Jon’s heart was no longer trying to burst out of his chest. His breath still hitched occasionally, but he could fill his lungs completely without feeling like he was drowning. He shifted experimentally in Martin’s arms and cringed slightly at the feeling of fabric moving against his arms, but pulled back far enough to give Martin a shaky smile.

“You were right to bring me home.” His voice was gravelly with wear and exhaustion.

In other circumstances it might have seemed mocking, but there was nothing but kindness in Martin’s voice. “I know.” He tightened his arms around Jon for a moment, then withdrew, saying, “I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready to turn in. Long day.”

“Yes, it was.”

It couldn’t have been later than five, and Martin’s bright, worried eyes didn’t exactly lend credence to his claim of exhaustion, but Jon knew better than to turn away the offer of an excuse like this, even a poorly disguised one.

Jon stumbled through the motions of preparing for bed in a bit of a daze, wrung out and listless without the immediacy of solid, unmoving arms around him. The visceral horror and repulsion had been too large for his body by far, and in their absence he was left drained and hollow. He sat on his bed with a sigh and might have fallen asleep upright had it not been for Martin appearing hesitantly in the doorway, and then Jon’s inclination was much more to sway toward him as though drawn by magnetic force.

“I won’t bother you,” Martin said. His feet, Jon noticed, stood very neatly on the other side of the threshold; he leaned against the doorframe, but stopped just short of actually entering the room. He extended a hand, the first part of him to breach the room’s shadows, and in it was a glint of something metallic. “Just – in case it helps. It might not, I don’t know, but… I always feel a bit better having it.”

Jon’s chest went quite warm and tight. He crossed the room and allowed his fingertips to brush Martin's palm as he took the corkscrew, cradling it like he would a valuable artifact. A bright point of pain sparked on the pad of his thumb when he tested the tip of it, and his hand curled around the handle with care.

He met Martin’s gaze intently, unable to string together more than half-formed fragments of a sentence to express the soft ache burning through what little discomfort was still curling in the pit of his stomach. Martin just smiled in that small, meaningful way of his and ducked his head, and all at once a single thought crystallized in Jon’s mind.

“Stay.”

“Oh– yeah, of course.” Martin pointed a thumb over his shoulder toward the living room. “I’ll be right on the couch if you need me. Not going anywhere, promise.”

Martin had been just a room away for the last week – hell, the last several weeks, if he was going to count the Institute. It had been a guiltily pleasant contrast to Jon’s nightmares to be able to look at his door and know that if he could look through it, he would see Martin safe and perfectly within reach, brimming as he always was with warmth. Tonight, though, things were different. The sofa _was_ directly in view of where he had left Prentiss’s file, and something cold shot through Jon’s veins at the thought of Martin reading it, but more than that-

In one way or another, Jon had spent all day asking Martin to stay, or at least wanting to. Stay as he read the statement, stay to keep him upright and breathing, stay with him on the tube to his flat and afterward. He saw no reason to stop now.

“No,” Jon said. “I mean – stay. If you want to.”

“Oh,” Martin said, barely more than a hushed, reverent exhale. “I... yeah. Okay. If you’re sure.”

Jon didn’t reply, instead extending his free hand and taking Martin’s, leading him to the bed. Corkscrew in one hand, Martin in the other, he felt more secure than he had all night. More so when Martin shut the door behind them, casting the whole room in grayscale, and perched on the edge of the bed so Jon could set the corkscrew within reach and lie down. When Jon gestured for him, he arranged himself on the bed so he lay between Jon and the door and took hold of both his hands again.

“I’ll wake you,” Martin murmured, his soft words sounding huge in the darkness. “If it seems like you’re dreaming, or if you scratch. Don’t worry.”

Jon brought one of Martin’s hands up to his mouth, pressing his lips against Martin’s knuckles in a lingering kiss. “I know.”

He slept restlessly and dreamed as he always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pass out sometimes when I experience visceral disgust or unexpectedly intense pain, and Jon's experiences in the second half of this chapter are based on that highly unpleasant experience mixed with what I've been told panic attacks feel like. I hope I haven't misrepresented that experience too terribly - feel free to point out any glaring issues and I'll be happy to correct them. 
> 
> Next chapter is up in two weeks - February 11th! Also, fun fact: if you've interacted with and/or said something nice about this fic, my soul is inextricably bound to yours. You guys are too nice to me <3
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: childhood trauma-based anxiety; references to Mr. Spider; panic attacks/(nearly) fainting


	24. Get Myself Back Home Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Case #0142302 lingers in Jon and Martin's minds long after it is read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun one to write, particularly because I actually had time to edit it and didn't have to finish the night of! I hope you like it! :) This chapter's title is from Everybody Lost Somebody by Bleachers. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes!

Jon’s bed was decidedly too small for two people.

Too small, that was, to sleep with any semblance of dignity. It didn’t really dawn on Martin until the next morning how unsuited the bed was for sharing, distracted as he had been the night before with the gleamingly vulnerable look in Jon’s eyes and the constant, quiet heartbreak of watching him fall apart, but in the early morning light it was glaringly obvious.

He wasn’t about to complain, admittedly. Jon was pressed all up along his right side, breathing evenly into the crook of his neck. His chin jabbed sharply into Martin’s chest, and there was not only an arm but an entire leg flung over Martin’s torso and his own thigh. Jon had a hand loosely fisted in the old T-shirt Martin wore to bed. Quite frankly, he was in heaven.

There wasn’t any sense in getting used to it, of course, he told himself sternly. Eventually Jon would wake up (though if Martin had to wager a guess, he could probably have gone right on sleeping all through the day and still carried those deep bags under his eyes), and chances were he would blush and carefully arrange himself at a more respectable distance, and in the evening it would be back to the couch for Martin. It would be quite a transition to suddenly jump from sort-of-by-necessity sharing a flat to completely-by-choice sharing a _bed_ , all within the first few months of a relationship.

For the moment, though, there was none of that to worry about. He had an arm going slowly numb under Jon’s weight which he could curl around Jon’s back and pretend that it was enough to ward off all his nightmares. He could stay perfectly still and soak in the feeling to eventually unspool into verse.

It was a gratifyingly long while before either of them moved. Sunlight crept through the blinds and across the room in slats, and as the room brightened, to Martin’s dismay, traces of tension began to seep back into Jon’s frame. His grip tightened on Martin’s shirt as he pushed his face deeper into the space between his neck and shoulder, and where Martin’s hand rested between Jon’s shoulder blades, he could practically feel them drawing up and together, out of the relaxed haze of sleep. Still with his eyes shut, Jon heaved an enormous sigh.

The angle was terribly awkward, but Martin craned his neck to properly look at Jon, to take in the moment while he could. The sight melted his expression into something almost palpably tender, and for a moment he was amazed at his own boldness in looking at Jon with such unadulterated affection. It still didn’t feel quite real, sometimes. Even lying tangled together in bed with him, weeks after the initial doubt had passed, Martin still sometimes watched Jon and wondered if it was all a cruel dream.

It became crueler still when Jon began to squint and blink, and the first bleary expression to cross his face was a dazed smile.

“Hi,” Martin whispered, unbearably fond.

Jon made an incoherent noise and buried his face back in Martin’s shoulder.

Martin smiled, his hand making its way up from Jon’s back to stroke lightly over his hair. “That’s the spirit,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He must have drifted off again, because the next time he opened his eyes there was only a warm, Jon-shaped impression in the mattress next to him. For a moment, Martin curled into the leftover heat, burying his face in the pillow in search of Jon’s rich, smoke-tinged scent. He inhaled deeply, mind still too hazy to be properly self-conscious about it all, and by the time he properly opened his eyes, he felt nearly dizzy with intoxicating warmth and only a bit silly about it.

He found Jon in the kitchen standing over a pan of eggs. A lopsided smile tugged at his lips as he took it all in; Jon was barefoot, with his hair pulled back in a haphazard bun and falling slightly into his face, staring down at the stove like it had personally offended him and he intended to right this wrong armed with a spatula. If Martin hadn’t known better, he might have thought the whole scene was plucked directly from his most embarrassing, heart-wrenchingly domestic fantasies.

The temptation to stand silently in the hallway and watch was strong, but the magnetic draw Jon seemed to have was stronger.

“Morning,” Martin said, watching Jon jump slightly and reveling in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked up. He closed the distance between them to touch just his fingertips to the small of Jon’s back, pressing in with the rest of his palm when Jon leaned to meet him. “Sleep okay?”

Jon hummed warmly. His attention turned back to the pan, but there was a faint trace of color on his cheekbones. “I didn’t scratch.”

“I’m glad. How’re you feeling?”

“Better than yesterday.” He turned in the curve of Martin’s arm to make eye contact, voice steeped in sincerity as he said, “Thank you. For… staying.”

Considering the vicious spike of affection that burst in Martin’s chest, Jon may as well have shot him point-blank. He ducked down to press a kiss to Jon’s hairline. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Jon huffed something that was probably supposed to sound indifferent under his breath and turned back to the stove. “I hope you like scrambled.”

“I love scrambled.” There was a shoddy metaphor there somewhere, probably. Something about what this conversation and, particularly, the sliver of Jon’s collarbone visible at the edge of his shirt were doing to his insides. In a mostly fruitless bid for self-preservation, Martin turned to survey the rest of the kitchen and just as quickly turned back with a frown. “Where’s the statement?”

“Hm? Oh.” Jon glanced over his shoulder at the conspicuously empty spot on the kitchen table where, not twelve hours before, Martin had considered physically shielding Jon from the view of Prentiss’s file. “I put it away.”

“You didn’t read it again, did you?”

“Of course not,” Jon said dismissively. “That would make breakfast rather difficult to stomach. I won’t be rereading it for the moment, and you won’t be reading it at all.”

Well. That was-

Martin was in love with Jon, he was fairly certain. Not that this was much of a revelation, but affection seemed too small a term for the burning ache in his chest. He was, he decided with a tight throat, graduating from infatuation. Who in their right mind wouldn’t, when confronted with the reality of their partner – _partner –_ protecting them from things that were more of an active threat to themselves?

“No, we won’t,” he agreed, making an effort to clear his voice of runaway emotions. Hopefully, he added, “Are you suggesting… a weekend embargo on statements?”

Jon grimaced guiltily. “Maybe not _weekend,”_ he hedged. “I’ll need to return to it eventually. Sooner rather than later, really. Now that the initial shock’s over, it’ll be…” His gaze drifted to the messenger bag he’d dumped beside the door on arrival the night before. “Better. Manageable. Fine.”

Martin frowned. “Or you could wait the two days and then hand it off to Tim or Sasha. You’ve done the recording, and I'm sure a rest would do you good.”

He should never have let Jon take the statements from his office in the first place. Martin knew as well as anyone that Jon had an almost compulsory need to do any work that happened to fall in his line of sight. 

“Or,” Jon sighed, suddenly sounding quite drained, clicking off the stove and padding across the room to wrap his arms around Martin’s middle, hooking his chin over his shoulder, “we could have breakfast.”

Martin’s resolve crumbled. “Breakfast,” he agreed, turning to press his lips to Jon’s temple. Jon shut his eyes, and Martin snaked an arm around his back to pull him close. “Breakfast sounds great.”

* * *

All things considered, the peace lasted longer than Martin would have expected it to. Jon did, of course, pull out Prentiss’s statement again before Saturday was through, but he kept to the supplemental notes with a pointed look at Martin that didn’t quite conceal his wariness and very deliberately pushed up his sleeves to show off the unharmed skin when, afterward, he settled beside him on the couch.

(The couch, incidentally, had been cleared of its previous mess of pillows and sheets, presumably while Martin was asleep. “You don’t need them,” Jon had said cautiously when Martin had inquired after them. “If you want.”

“Alright,” Martin had said, and that was that. Jon’s bed was still far too small for two people, but Martin certainly wasn’t going to be the one to bring that up. If Jon didn’t want plausible deniability, then neither did he.)

It wasn’t until Monday that traces of the same urgency that had possessed Jon the week before made a proper reappearance. Martin had been quietly proud of how well Jon had kept his head after coming down from Prentiss’s statement, had gone so far as to give himself a bit of credit, but as soon as they set foot back in the archives, it became clear that the primary contributing factor had been that Jon had no other statements at home.

He didn’t shut himself in his office; terrible as it was to think, that might have been preferable. Instead, Jon was making a brisk entrance into the bullpen every two hours or so like clockwork, delivering fresh statements and their respective instructions as he apparently ground through recording after recording at a frankly alarming rate.

After the third such delivery, Sasha glanced up from her veritable mountain of paperwork to give Martin a concerned look. “Busy day today,” she said carefully.

Martin sighed. “Tell me about it.” He gestured to his own pile of papers (a truly tedious mixture of tax records and missing persons cases; what connections he was supposed to be drawing between them was anybody’s guess). “I guess this is what we get for making Jon take a day off. He’s probably compensating.”

On Sasha’s other side, Tim laughed. “You _think?”_

“I don’t know,” Sasha said. “I mean, yeah, probably a bit, but have you noticed these statements all come from around Archway? Two of them even mention the same street.”

Martin frowned. “Huh. Was Gertrude filing them by location or something? That doesn’t make sense. We had one from Surrey and one from Scotland last week.”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.” Sasha drew a leg up on her chair, hugging her knee to her chest. “But what I’m saying is, they come from the same places _Prentiss’s_ came from. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Slowly, horror dawning, Martin raised a hand to his mouth and stared at the door like he could look through it into the office. “Oh, _Jon.”_

“Yeah,” Sasha said softly. “We might want to… distract him or something. Otherwise he’ll just go down a research spiral, make himself feel worse, _and_ we’ll spend the week drowning in paperwork.”

“God, we had enough of that in research when he _wasn’t_ working through worm trauma,” Tim added, grimacing. “Who wants to give it the first shot, then?”

“I’ll go.” Sasha stretched her arms over her head and stood, nodding seriously to Tim and Martin like a soldier heading off to war. “I need a break from compiling zip codes anyway.”

“Five pounds says he shuts her down,” Tim said, watching Sasha close the door behind her.

Martin sighed. “No bet.”

It was no surprise when Sasha returned minutes later with a frown and without Jon, and Tim’s subsequent efforts to invite him out for lunch were equally fruitless. Martin, after a carefully calculated delay, went in with a cup of tea, for which he was absently thanked and then summarily ignored.

It was dark out by the time Jon emerged from his office with yet another file, only to stop short and blink in confusion at the near-deserted room.

“It’s eight,” Martin supplied helpfully. “Workday’s over.”

Jon frowned, looking a bit lost as he glanced down at the file in his hand, and sighed. “Fine. I suppose I’ll leave this here for the morning, then.”

Relief washed over Martin, potent and heady. “Good idea. Let’s call it a day, huh?”

Maybe, if he was still welcome there, he could take Jon to bed. There was a sort of mutual peace to be had there, in the darkness, or at least there had been the last two days; without the looming pretenses of daytime, Jon sometimes curled into Martin in a silent request to be held, finally stilling his restless movements when he had some sort of gentle weight to ground him, and the heavy ache in Martin’s lungs settled with Jon in the protective circle of his arms. Jon looked particularly untethered now, and Martin ached to pull him back down to earth, to smooth the crease between his eyebrows with his thumbs.

“Ah.” Jon paused mid-motion, arm outstretched to deposit the file on Sasha’s desk, and fidgeted a touch uncomfortably. “I thought I might put in just a bit more work, actually. There’s a file I’ve got a feeling might contain some _actually_ useful information.”

“Can’t it wait?” Martin asked, unable to bring himself to tone down the plaintive note in his voice.

Jon grimaced. “Half an hour,” he promised. “At most. In fact, if you want to go ahead, I certainly won’t stop you, I wouldn’t want-”

“Jon.”

“I know, I know. Just… if you don’t mind waiting just a little while longer? You’re welcome to go home at any point, I can give you a key, but I- I _need_ to read this statement, Martin.”

Martin ignored the surge of emotions that threatened to choke him at Jon calling it _home,_ much less offering to give him a key – it _was_ Jon’s home, that didn’t mean anything, and the key was… a necessity. He couldn’t read too much into it, not into _this._ This was too important. “Okay,” he sighed. “If that’s what you need. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

Jon’s face went soft. “You always are, aren’t you? Thank you.”

While Martin was occupied with trying not to simply burst into flames at _that,_ Jon moved in an odd, jerky way, looking up and past Martin as if scanning the room, then strode quickly over to him and took hold of his cheeks to press a kiss to his forehead. Martin gaped up at him, stunned and tingling where Jon’s breath still ghosted over his hairline, and failed to find his voice as Jon repeated, “Just a few minutes,” and left the room with purpose.

“Okay,” Martin said weakly into the empty space Jon had left behind. “Sure.”

That left him with half an hour to kill and a towering stack of paperwork staring him down. There was no way he was about to go down that route, though; he had spent all day digging into the files littering his desk, and none of them were even remotely interesting enough to return to at this hour.

There _was_ one statement that had been nagging at him quietly all day, but that one hadn't crossed a desk in months. Maybe he couldn’t really blame Jon for his obsessive search for anything to do with Prentiss, Martin thought as he scribbled a note to Jon – _if you read this, I’m in doc storage. See you soon –_ and left the room, wracking his brain for the number of Timothy Hodge’s file.

Before crossing the threshold into document storage, he cast a wary eye across the floor. Sleeping in Jon’s flat had spoiled him; the need to search for worms was dulled where there had never been any in the first place, and it didn’t hurt that Jon was quite an effective distraction. Here, though, there were odd shadows and plenty of corners for things to lurk in. At a glance, nothing seemed amiss save for the towel he’d stuffed into the ceiling vent, which had probably fallen during the installation of the CO2 system. Martin made quick work of replacing it before turning his attention to the filing cabinets, still with half an eye out for anything wriggling on the floor.

Considering the state the filing system was in, Hodge’s statement was shockingly easy to find. There was even a tape slid neatly in with the case notes, and recorders were always close at hand in the Institute. Martin wasn’t quite sure when they’d started stocking up on them, since there had definitely been quite a search for one when it had first become clear that digital files were unreliable, but there were evidently enough now that Jon could leave one of his collection on a filing cabinet and not miss it.

Martin inserted the tape and listened as Jon’s faintly staticky voice began to grimly outline Hodge’s story.

To put it simply, the tape was far from illuminating, and to make up for it, it was twice as gruesome as he’d remembered. Martin had forgotten, maybe deliberately, how _afraid_ Harriet Lee had been in the moments leading up to her demise. He’d forgotten the shuddering horror that had crept through him even the first time, before Prentiss, when he’d heard the description of how the things under her skin had started to move. How she had itched.

He had definitely repressed the memory of how _visceral_ the image of worms bursting out was, blanketing the bedroom floor in such a hideous display that Hodge had burned his home to ash rather than face it even for a moment. Given the absolute remorselessness in his statement, Martin doubted Hodge would have refrained from setting his flat on fire even if he had known that extinguishers worked too. Come to think of it, though, the more worms showed up from no source he could identify, the more Martin himself felt inclined to do something drastic. Maybe that was just a natural response to this sort of thing.

Prentiss was mentioned only once in the actual statement portion of the recording, and not even by name. There was nothing useful to be had there unless Martin was looking for insight into how, specifically, Prentiss transmitted her parasites, which he most decidedly was not. Jon’s concluding notes were only marginally more relevant, but even they failed to provide anything new or set up any leads.

Hell, Martin had gathered more information from his firsthand encounters with Prentiss than was available in this statement. Hodge was dead, they knew that now, and the worms hadn’t piloted him like they had Prentiss if Sasha’s account was any indication. There certainly wasn’t any follow-up to be done there. Frustrated, Martin sighed and rewound the tape.

He was halfway through his second listen-through of the statement – just in case; he _was_ prone to missing things – when there was a soft sound from the doorway.

“Thank you for waiting,” Jon said, overlapping with his own recorded voice as Martin fumbled to stop the playback. He cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Hodge.”

Jon’s eyebrows rose. “Anything interesting?”

“Not even remotely,” Martin griped. “It’s all the same stuff we’ve known all along, with an extra helping of just – gross. I’m itchy all over again.” Frowning, he twisted himself sideways on the cot and laid down with a heavy exhale. His hands rested on the tape recorder on his chest, clutching it like a small child might a toy.

Barely a moment later, the cot creaked as Jon perched on the narrow edge left unoccupied. Martin craned his neck to watch as Jon plucked the tape from his grasp and neatly situated his own free hand in the space it left behind, so Martin was holding Jon’s palm to his sternum. He gave it a squeeze and, seconds later, had to extricate one of his hands to stifle a yawn.

“Comfortable?” Jon asked, the faintest suggestion of amusement in his voice.

“Not at all.” Martin clutched Jon’s hand a bit tighter. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t miss the cot.”

Jon huffed. “I wouldn’t imagine so. Let’s get you in a proper bed, shall we?”

Propping himself up on an elbow and frowning as sternly as he could manage, Martin said, “You first.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Blackwood,” Jon said solemnly. “But I accept your terms. I’m sure somewhere, there’s a bed to be found that sleeps two.”

Martin snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jon just smiled.

* * *

“Martin. _Martin!”_

Jon’s voice cracked through the archives like a whip, and Martin was up and moving before his mind even properly caught up. When he burst into the office, Jon didn’t turn to face him; instead, he stood staring at a dusty corner, pale, and pointed.

“I need you to kill it.”

Martin blinked. “That’s… that’s just a house spider, Jon.”

Jon was scowling, jaw clenched and eyes unwavering from the corner where the spider sat. “Yes,” he said tightly. “And I need you to kill it.”

“I mean, I’d really rather not. Let me just pop out and get a cup, and I’ll have him out of here in just a second.”

_“Martin.”_

There was a slightly wild edge to Jon’s eyes, to his defensive stance, and it occurred to Martin that it was a look he’d seen before, albeit muted and better buried, every time Jon snapped or griped. In the question of fight or flight, it seemed Jon was inclined to fight.

“Right,” he said, rolling back his shoulders as he crossed the room in such a way that he hoped radiated ease and confidence. He reached over Jon to pluck a tissue from his desk. “S’cuse me.”

As Martin knelt down next to the spiderweb, Jon made a small noise in his throat, equal parts disgusted and vulnerable. Martin ignored it. It didn’t seem like the sort of sound one made on purpose. Carefully, he bundled the tissue up and placed it over the spider, making a small pinching motion to trap it in the tissue’s folds without crushing.

Jon watched with open distaste as Martin stood, eyes fixed intensely on the tissue, and backed away when Martin neared on his way to the door.

“Is it dead?”

Martin deliberately angled the makeshift spider trap away from Jon so any escaping legs or such would be out of sight. “Um. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Jon sank into his chair, still watching Martin’s hand as though the smallest lapse in attention would doom them both. Like it was being torn out of him, he said, “I wish you’d kill it.”

“It’s a living thing, Jon. I can’t just do that.”

“The worms are living things,” Jon countered, then immediately raised a hand to rub roughly over his face. “No, don’t answer that. I know. It’s… _different.”_ His voice was bitter and rough.

Had he not been holding a (hopefully) living spider, Martin might have gone to try and reassure him. He'd seen Jon face down quite a few spiders in his day, always with vitriol and utter disgust, but it had never seemed to affect him so strongly. As it was, Martin could only put on the same sympathetic smile that always failed to placate his mother and say, “I know you don’t like them. I’ll get rid of as many of them as you like, but I won’t kill them. Sorry, Jon.”

Jon nodded stiffly. “Fine. Would you take that outside, please?”

Martin brought the spider outside. He crushed a handful of worms underfoot for good measure.

* * *

In the early days of their tenure in the archives, Tim and Sasha had come up with a long-winded theory that Artefact Storage itself, not just the things it contained, was cursed. This was largely based on the fact that during the handful of months Sasha had spent there, two separate wristwatches had stopped working and she’d never been able to fix them. Therefore, Tim had announced with great conviction and gravitas, it was only logical to deduce that proximity to Artefact Storage caused time to warp, with an epicenter in the room itself that stopped time altogether. It carried all the way down to the archives, he had explained, weighing down the hands of the clock on the wall just enough that each second dragged on a fraction longer than it ought to.

Martin had laughed then, but watching the minutes crawl by now, he was starting to think there might have been something to it. By his count, it had been eight-thirty for at least the last ten minutes.

The problem wasn’t even the lack of something to do; had he really wanted to, Martin could easily have dug back into the pile of follow-up research still waiting on his desk. Jon’s rapid-fire recordings had certainly supplied them all with no shortage of work. He was just _tired._ Each of the last three days had ended like this, with Martin staring blankly at the clock and waiting for whatever rabbit hole Jon had fallen into that day to hit a dead end or wear off or disprove its relevance. When he finally did emerge, Jon always looked as tired as Martin felt and equally dissatisfied. It felt disconcertingly like fighting a losing battle, but he couldn’t put a name to the enemy.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Martin had murmured across the bed to him the night before. Jon’s hand had fumbled around in the sheets for a bit before coming to rest on Martin’s forearm. “You’re going to burn yourself out. I don’t want to watch you do that.”

“I know,” Jon had said. “I know. I just need to find _something_. Anything. It’ll be better when I have answers.”

He hadn’t found his answers the next day, or the day after.

Approximately six hours later, when the clock finally read nine, Martin resigned himself to the fact that Jon wouldn’t be emerging in a timely manner, or maybe at all. He’d promised half an hour, which Martin had roughly translated to an hour, and now that both estimates had come and gone, all bets were off.

Jon didn’t look up when Martin cracked his office door. Martin decided not to wonder whether this was because he was so absorbed in the file that he didn’t notice or because he simply couldn’t be bothered.

“I’m going to lie down in document storage,” he said. “Um. Good night, Jon.”

Jon did look up then, something like helpless resignation in his eyes. “Oh. Yes, right, of course. The, um, the offer still stands, you know. If you want to go back to my place, I’ll give you the key.”

Martin shook his head. “I told you,” he said, working very hard to keep any notes of accusation out of his voice. That was the last thing either of them needed. “I won’t go without you. Try not to work yourself too hard, yeah?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before shutting the door behind him.

Hours or minutes later, Martin woke squinting in the sliver of light that had fallen on his face. There was a sound – maybe a muffled curse – and the light shifted as a shadow blocked out the glare. In the doorway stood Jon, out of focus at the edges without Martin’s glasses and palpably hesitating.

Martin’s mouth was like cotton as he mumbled, “What time’s it?”

“Early.” It was difficult to tell by his silhouette, but Jon seemed to rub at his face before heaving a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Humming low in his throat, Martin shifted heavily back against the wall and lifted a corner of his blanket in a silent offer.

“Oh,” Jon whispered, sounding faintly choked. His outline was swallowed by the dark as he shut the door behind him, and then the only way for Martin to gauge his position was the sound of cautious, purposeful footsteps drawing nearer.

Jon was careful sitting on the edge of the cot, as if it might tip over to eject him at any moment. Martin reached out blindly, bumping against what might have been an elbow before his hand wound up on Jon’s leg and squeezed sleepily. “Okay?”

There was a long pause, and then Jon took a long breath like he was bracing himself for something and laid down, close enough that his hair tickled Martin’s face. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Martin draped the blanket over him. It made the room feel smaller, the space between them warmer. 

“Yeah?” he said a bit more coherently, brow knitting at that non-answer, and then, “Oh, glasses. Take those off.”

Jon obeyed, and when he settled back down it was even closer than before. Closer than the narrow cot required. Heart aching in a warm, full sort of way, Martin shuffled slightly down the mattress and leaned so his head rested on the junction of Jon’s shoulder and chest, the weight of his arm draped over Jon’s torso. Jon let out a heavy sigh in response, lifting a hand to run through Martin’s hair.

“The longer I go without finding anything,” Jon said with the air of a confession, softly enough that Martin could have pretended not to hear it, “the more it feels like I’m inviting something terrible to happen.”

Martin’s arm tightened around him. He took a long breath, letting Jon’s words settle before he spoke. “It’s not your job to save the world,” he said into Jon’s shirt. The fabric was crinkled under his cheek and smelled faintly of coffee, and it would doubtless be horribly rumpled tomorrow. He pressed a clumsy kiss to Jon's shoulder through it. “Just yourself. That’s all you need to take care of.”

Jon did not respond, which Martin supposed was fair. He could ask Jon to leave years’ worth of ingrained habit behind, but he could hardly expect him to know how to handle that concept right away. The slight shuddering of Jon’s breath and the way his hand clutched more fiercely at the nape of Martin’s neck were answer enough.

The cot was smaller and permitted less personal space than the bed in Jon’s flat, which was quite a feat. Even so, Martin chose to believe that the way Jon clung to him like a life preserver was a matter of more than convenience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading!! I deeply appreciate everyone who's still following this story <3
> 
> The next chapter will be up in two weeks, on February 25th! I don't want to make promises I can't keep, but my writing schedule is sort of on track again, so ideally I'll be able to post the last three chapters on a weekly basis again!! Fingers crossed!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: some descriptions of worms/infestation (in a statement), spiders (non-supernatural).


	25. If I Ever Got Out of Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A variety of statements are given, none of which are as helpful or Prentiss-related as Jon would like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are (counting the one released today which I haven't listened to yet) five episodes of TMA left, and I'd like to say right now that I take no responsibility for any of my planned plot points which Jonny is almost certainly going to render obsolete with his final episodes. This fic is tagged canon divergent for a reason. 
> 
> This chapter's title is from Norman Rockwell by the Mowgli's! Not super tonally fitting, but I think the lyrics really fit canon jonmartin :)
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter are in the end notes! Hope you enjoy!!

There were a truly remarkable number of statements concerning insects and infestations in the archives, and not a single one of them appeared to offer more information about Prentiss.

Even the one in Jon’s hands was probably nonsense, considering it opened with the admission that the statement giver had been drunk at the time. Still, though, progress was progress. He was slogging through the archives’ statement backlog at an agonizing pace, and it certainly wouldn’t help his case to discard every iffy statement that crossed his path; he’d be drowning in papers before long if that were the case.

Sighing, Jon opened a new audio file on his computer.

“Statement of Albert Blechmann, regarding a termite infestation found in his friend’s basement. Original statement given, uh, June…” He squinted. Practically illegible – another point against Mr. Blechmann’s case. “June 27th, 2009. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

As he opened his mouth to begin reading, there was a sound from outside his office like a muffled voice. Jon scowled. Whoever it was, they were lucky this statement likely wouldn’t be revisited anytime soon.

“It was all my mate’s fault, really,” he read. “Dragged me out to his party like he does nearly every weekend, and didn’t bother to ask if I was busy first. Not that I _was –_ he was right about that – but it’s about the principle of the thing.”

The voice outside sounded again, closer and clearer this time. Tim, probably.

Jon went on, “I could have been busy, you know? Almost makes me wish I had plans, or some kind of work to do. _Unlike some of us,”_ he added grimly under his breath when the doorknob twisted and Tim’s voice flowed in unimpeded.

“Jon,” Tim said, leaning against the doorframe and jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Is now a bad time? We’ve got a live one.”

Jon resisted the urge to rub at his temples. “I _really_ wish you wouldn’t refer to statement givers that way.”

Tim just shrugged, smiling beatifically. “Comes with the territory,” he said. “Anyway, he’s just waiting in the break room. Want me to send him in?”

“Alright,” Jon sighed. He stopped the recording on his computer and deleted it. “Why not.”

Tim gave him a thumbs-up and an approving nod. “Right, on it. You might even like this guy, I think.” He put a hand up to his mouth and leaned in secretively to add, “Kind of the stuffy academic sort, you know. Right up your alley.”

“ _Tim._ Just send him in.”

With a jaunty two-finger salute, Tim disappeared from view. Moments later, another man took his place. He was tall and thin, with a sort of self-assured angle to his face. He held a tote bag emblazoned with some sort of university symbol and wore a sweater vest that was disconcertingly similar to the sort of thing Jon often wore himself; had it not been for that detail, he might have been inclined to agree with Tim’s assessment that this man was a bit on the pretentious side.

“Good morning,” Jon said, rising from his desk. The man strode to meet him, plastering on a bland, friendly smile. “I’m Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist. I’m told you have a statement to make.”

“Dr. Lionel Elliot. I believe I do,” the man said, crossing the room and holding out a hand to shake. He glanced over his shoulder as he seated himself opposite Jon’s desk, brows drawing together. “I have to ask—why on Earth have you got a bed in here?”

Jon grimaced. That settled it; as soon as Dr. Elliot was out of the room, he was clearing away the cot. There was hardly any point in keeping it here, after all, now that he was spending most nights at his flat and the others crammed into a single cot with Martin. It was neatly made, of course, but that didn’t make the mere presence of a _bed_ in his workspace any less unprofessional.

“Storage mishap,” he said briskly, opening a new audio file. “Here we are. Please state your name and the subject of your experience.”

“Dr. Lionel Elliot, professor of human anatomy at King’s College. Regarding, uh… events that took place a few months ago, during an introductory anatomy class.”

“Excellent,” Jon said, pausing the recording. He scrolled to the beginning of the audio file and hit _play,_ only for Elliot’s crisp accent to come out garbled and screaming with static. Jon groaned lowly. “Of course not,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Elliot raised an eyebrow, unimpressed frown blending seamlessly with academic concern. “Is there a problem?”

Jon wished fervently for a nice, bracing cup of tea. Dealing with statement givers was exhausting enough when the statement givers in question weren't also the sort of academic purists that turned their noses up at the Institute's subject matter. He said, “Not at all. I’m afraid we’ll have to look into an alternate method of recording, though.”

“How charming,” Elliot said as Jon extracted a tape recorder from his desk drawer. The word _charming_ could have been replaced with _outdated_ and the sentiment would not have changed.

Jon clicked it on. He pointedly ignored the prickling feeling on the back of his neck that had, thus far, accompanied all his least favorite statements.

Seemingly oblivious, Elliot continued, “You’ve got an infestation, by the way. I hope you’re aware.”

“I am, unfortunately. Rest assured, we’re working to remedy that issue.”

Distantly, Jon wondered if there was something in his eyes that spoke of a deeper problem than a simple infestation. He wondered if that was what had Dr. Elliot worrying at the handles of his bag with his fingertips, suddenly frowning more warily. If there was a similar kind of fear concealed somewhere inside this man.

“Let’s begin,” Jon said. “Statement of Dr. Lionel Elliot, regarding a series of events that took place during his class…”

“Introduction to Human Anatomy and Physiology.”

“At King’s College, London, in early 2016. Statement recorded direct from subject, 12th July, 2016. Statement begins.”

Not only did Dr. Elliot’s statement cause Jon’s teeth to grit as he recorded it, but its prompt appearance in his dreams that night was properly jarring. Jon hadn’t had a new dream in… several months, he thought. It was all Melanie King and Naomi Herne; not even Prentiss occupied his dreams in the same way those statements did most nights. She crept in on the periphery occasionally, and when she did it was rattling, but that was mostly when he was just on the edge of consciousness or when he managed to snag a moment of rest at particularly odd hours. Now, it seemed Dr. Elliot’s story was joining the regular rotation.

As was the case with too many of his dreams, he was frozen in place and maddeningly helpless. He stood for what felt like hours in a clinically spotless lab, watching a group of students with clinically spotless faces twist and reshape and mold specimens into wretched shapes. Dr. Elliot watched him in return; Jon couldn’t tell if there was more fear in his eyes when he looked to him or his students.

The sounds of their experimentation were terrible, and each deep crack seemed to reverberate through Jon’s own bones. When they turned their attention to their own bodies, Jon tried to look away, to shake his head in protest— _anything._ It was futile. He stood, and he watched.

An eternity later, he blinked and the students were gone, and on the table before him was a perfectly sliced, fresh apple gleaming with juice and human teeth.

As he watched, a single worm squeezed itself out of the pristine flesh of the apple. The area immediately around its body seemed to rot before Jon’s eyes, tinging with moldy green and abandoning its healthy sheen in favor of something that glistened more slickly. Slowly, gorging itself on the fruit as it went, the worm wedged itself between two of the molars.

Jon gasped awake with a sickeningly sweet taste in his mouth and fingers curled into claws. He did not go back to sleep.

* * *

The walls were extremely thin in the archives. Jon told himself that this was mostly to blame for the conversation he happened to overhear, not just the fact that he had been too curious for his own good since long before he’d learned that asking too many questions was a good way to get in trouble.

“I _know_ they’ve got the community cookout this weekend,” Martin’s voice said from the break room, calmly and with a hint of underlying tension that suggested he was working very hard to keep it that way. “They send out that newsletter every two weeks, remember?”

There was a pause. Jon hesitated where he stood in the hallway, internally debating whether it would be suspicious just to turn around and go back to his office rather than hovering on the periphery of what was clearly not a conversation meant for him.

Then Martin kept talking, this time with an edge of hurt in his voice, and in a turn of events eerily reminiscent of most of his nightmares, Jon was glued in place. “Well, I _was_ hoping I could still visit, you know. It’s just for an hour, and you wouldn’t even need to miss it. I could come with you.”

Another pause.

“Do I need a reason? I, I want to see you, I want to talk to you. Is that so hard to believe?”

Jon didn’t want to imagine what reply followed that; his hands were tightly curled into fists as it was. He had a feeling if he received more information, he might be liable to do himself (or someone, at any rate) an injury.

“Well, yeah, actually,” Martin said. What little fight there had been in his voice before seemed to have drained out. “There _was_ something I wanted to tell you. I thought you might like to know. But I—if I’m not coming, I guess I can just tell you over the phone. That’s fine.”

Jon straightened. _This,_ he was certain, was the moment to leave. Before he learned something he wasn’t supposed to. It took an immense amount of willpower, but he managed to give himself a shake and turn back toward his office—maybe he was lingering a bit, but he was at least putting in an effort—before Martin’s voice echoed down the hall again and rendered Jon’s determination moot.

“I’m seeing someone,” Martin said. He spoke like someone walking on ice, probing with each step whether another move forward would be the one to plunge him into freezing depths.

Jon, for his part, found himself suddenly afflicted with a searing rush of warmth. He pressed a hand to his mouth as his face twisted from scarcely concealed indignation to fondness. “Oh, Martin,” he whispered to himself.

Now that he thought of it, Martin _hadn’t_ gotten to tell anyone himself. Tim had found out of his own accord and passed the message on to Sasha, and—surely Martin had more friends, intensely likable as he was. Someone in the library, or Rosie, or _anyone._ He’d never mentioned anything of the sort, though. Even Jon had gotten to tell Georgie. Whatever the case, Martin bringing it up with now felt significant in a way that set a bright spark of pride glowing in Jon’s chest. He would have told his grandmother, too, he thought.

Martin laughed quietly. “I know, I’m surprised too. See, I would have loved to see you in person for this. Good news is always so much nicer face to face.”

_“Surprised,”_ Jon repeated under his breath before leaning toward the mouth of the hallway in a shameless bid for more information. Hopefully Martin wasn’t the sort to go on ambling walks during phone calls.

“No, he’s lovely, Mum.” Martin sighed. Whether or not it was a good sigh was indiscernible. “I know. No, I know. But he’s not like that, really. He wouldn’t.”

If pressed, Jon couldn’t have put a finger on what it was that made him take a cautious step back then, but the pause that followed those words carried a tension that hadn’t been present before.

“That’s not going to happen,” Martin said firmly. “No—I really don’t think so. I _trust_ him, Mum. We’re okay.”

Martin’s quiet pacing resumed—had he been pacing before? When had it stopped?—as Jon battled a perplexing mix of fondness and defensiveness. It could have been on Martin’s behalf or his own. He couldn’t tell.

“Yeah, I am. Listen, maybe you’ll get to meet him at some point! Only on a day where you’re feeling up to it, of course. Like I said, he’s lovely. You’d like him.”

Jon doubted that. He’d never met Georgie’s parents, but given his track record with first impressions even in contexts that _weren’t_ romantic, he had a feeling it might take an actual miracle to let him leave a positive impression. Particularly on someone who seemed to be convinced already that he was going to, what? Break Martin’s heart? Treat him poorly? One of those was already uncomfortably close to the truth, or at least it had been.

“Right, of course,” Martin said softly. “Almost eight, you’re right. I’ll let you get to bed. Say hi to Catherine for me.” He paused for a moment. “Oh—yeah, no, of course. Just… next time you see her, then. Don’t go out of your way. Love you, Mum. Good night.”

There was absolute silence for a moment as Martin stopped moving around the room, and then there was a deep sigh. Martin muttered something under his breath, too softly to make out.

Jon made a split-second decision. He took the few steps into the threshold and, tentatively, cleared his throat.

“Oh!” Martin jumped, eyes wide. “Christ, Jon. I didn’t see you there.”

“Sorry.” The apology could have been for any number of things; Jon wasn’t sure himself.

Martin waved him off. “You’re alright. I just didn’t, ah…” His brows drew together. “How… how much of that did you hear?”

Really, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Jon had never been able to hide it from his grandmother when he snuck around, either. Why should Martin be any different?

“A bit,” he admitted through a grimace, carefully monitoring Martin’s reaction. “I—in my defense, I meant to give you some space, but then I heard… well.”

Martin gave him an unreadable look. An array of emotions seemed to silently run their course as Jon watched; there was a flicker of irritation, then upset, then resignation shot through with vulnerability, and twice he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out.

After a long pause, Martin said, “I’m not going to make you meet my mother.”

Jon cleared his throat to rid himself of the odd tightness that had formed there. “Alright.”

With a single-minded focus, Martin turned to the cupboard and began rummaging around, acting quite busy but not pulling anything out. Facing away from Jon, he said, voice slightly higher than usual, “I know it’s—it would be early anyway, but I won’t subject you to that. She never likes anyone I date, not that she’s met many of them.”

“I see,” Jon said slowly. “Well, it’s your decision.”

Martin made a noncommittal noise into the cupboard and went on rummaging. Something that might have been a laugh escaped him after a drawn-out moment, airy and fragile. “I like to think of it as her protecting my honor, you know. Little, uh. Inside joke I have with myself.”

Tentatively, Jon took a step closer. “Martin.”

“She can just be a bit defensive,” Martin went on, still in that wobbling, self-deprecating tone. “Her way of keeping everything under control, I think. It’s really nothing personal.”

Jon was no longer sure which of them Martin was talking to. He was also quite glad that he wasn’t being introduced to Martin’s mother, because he had seen this glass-blown fragility before and he didn’t like it any more now than he had the first time. The odds that he could conduct himself respectably in her presence were dropping from slim to none.

Silently, Jon leaned against the counter next to Martin. It didn’t escape his notice that Martin wasted no time in opening a new cabinet door to hide his face behind. “Martin,” he repeated, gentler still than the first time.

Martin sighed heavily and stopped his restless rummaging, planting his hands firmly on the counter so his arms, pillar-like, held him upright. His face remained out of sight.

“If it’s any consolation,” Jon said after an agonizingly long minute, “I don’t think my grandmother would have approved either. I never got around to bringing anyone home, but.” He shrugged, even though Martin couldn’t see him.

He could almost hear the weight of the smile he imagined Martin plastering on. “She didn’t like you dating?”

Jon let out a huff of a laugh. “Honestly, I think disapproval was just her default a lot of the time.”

Finally, finally, Martin shut the cabinet door. He didn’t meet Jon’s eyes when he turned to him, but it still felt like a victory. “I would have liked to meet her,” he said.

Jon reached out to cover Martin’s hand on the counter with his own. “I would have liked that too.”

Something like a smile flickered across Martin’s face for a fraction of a second, still awash with sadness. He flipped his hand under Jon’s and gave it a squeeze, then turned to face the room at large. He stared into the distance like he was looking far beyond the opposite walls of the room.

“It’s not like I was expecting her to be excited,” he said eventually. “But it’s still…”

Martin sighed. Jon waited.

“A bit of support wouldn’t have hurt, you know?” Martin finished. “I just—I could have lived with that.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said lowly.

Martin shrugged, though his expression suggested anything but nonchalance. “S’fine. I mean, yeah, I wanted it, but…” He shook his head. “It’s not like I _needed_ her approval. I’m, you know. A grown man. I can make my own decisions.”

Chuckling, Jon took a step sideways and slid his arm around Martin’s waist, tucking himself into his side. Martin’s arm immediately came to wrap around his shoulders.

“That’s the spirit,” he said, peering up at Martin’s face in search of a hint of a smile. “For the record, I’m glad you used your autonomy as a grown man to make this particular decision.”

Right on cue, Martin’s lips twitched. “Quiet, you,” he mumbled. Jon silently congratulated himself.

Jon grinned, and for a moment, leaning side-by-side against the counter in quiet solidarity, he was back on the kitchen floor of Martin’s flat, promising not to give up as Prentiss’s knocks nearly rattled the door off its hinges.

“I like our odds,” Jon said softly. If Martin caught his meaning, he didn’t let on.

* * *

Jon hadn’t smoked in years. The last time he’d had a cigarette was just after graduating uni, when he’d resolved to clean himself up and tie his hair back and rid himself of the stench of smoke to prepare himself for the workforce.

He’d tossed out every lighter and leftover carton of cigarettes he could find in the process, so even when the cravings struck he’d have nothing to light or to light with. A single lighter had escaped the purge, and only because he’d never really used it, so when he’d found it buried at the bottom of a bag months later, he’d shrugged and tucked it back in as a sort of memento from his misguided youth. He had no idea where it was now; probably buried in a drawer somewhere, maybe even at the Institute. It didn’t matter.

The point was, Jon owned exactly one lighter and was very much not in need of another. Why anyone would go to the trouble of mailing him one was quite beyond him, but he had checked the address twice and the package very clearly said _Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London._ There was no return address.

He might not have thought anything of it had it not been for the other delivery that had apparently been made with it. The slightly dazed, unfocused look in Tim’s eyes as he described the pattern on the table’s surface had been enough to send ice water spilling through his veins as he had rushed out of the office, heart in his throat.

If nothing else, the lighter emitted a perfectly normal flame. Jon clicked it on and off, on and off rhythmically as he waited for Martin to sit down, and for a moment he entertained the idea of burning some scrap of paper or even finding a cigarette to light, just to be sure that there wasn’t a supernatural quality to the fire itself.

It was quite explicitly bad conduct to have an open flame in the archives. Jon flicked the lighter shut and settled for running his thumbnail along the intricate spiderweb pattern instead.

“So, uh,” Martin said after a moment, causing Jon to put the lighter down with a start. “Tim said this is about… that delivery? Is that why you look like you’re about to commit arson?”

“ _Please_ don’t imply that. There are very few worse things you could accuse me of doing down here.”

Martin raised his hands in surrender, smiling faintly. “Right, sorry. Um, I didn’t really think anything of it? I did mean to tell you about the table sooner though, sorry.”

Jon held up a hand. “Wait.” The tape recorder was still within reach from the most recent statement; he pushed the _record_ button. “Alright. Tell me what happened.”

Martin was eyeing the recorder warily. “Really? There honestly isn’t much to say about it. I mean, other than the table itself being weird, I guess, but the rest seemed normal enough. Two guys came in, said they had a delivery, left me with the package for you, walked back out. That’s it.”

“Describe them.”

“I _really_ don’t see the point of this,” Martin sighed. “They just looked like deliverymen. They were… tall, I think, maybe taller than me, but maybe not. They had on regular uniforms. Thick Cockney accents. I… I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Jon.”

_“Anything_ else,” Jon pressed. He was fairly certain he was on the verge of a headache. If only he hadn’t given up smoking. “What they said, any identifiable features, maybe a- a logo on their uniforms?”

Martin ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what they said, nothing specific. They kept talking over each other, but… not _over_ each other, I guess? I—actually, now that I’m saying it, that doesn’t make any sense. They were probably just loud. And they didn’t _look_ like anything. They just looked exactly how you would expect. Normal.”

The issue with working in an institute of the supernatural was that after a while, _normal_ lost its meaning. Normal was nightmarish horrors and creeping dread and the smell of rot. The one thing that was decidedly _not_ normal was normal itself.

Jon rubbed at his temple as he said, “That’s what Rosie said too. Perfect.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, looking contemplative. “Okay,” he said eventually. “So that checks out, right? Nothing for you to worry about.”

“ _That_ is debatable,” Jon said tersely. “Especially considering how similar these people sound to the deliverymen in Joshua Gillespie’s statement, _and_ they delivered a table matching the description from Amy Patel’s statement. I do think, in fact, that this is something I should be worried about.”

“Okay,” Martin repeated, this time with an air of defeat. “I just don’t want you to drive yourself crazy over this, you know? I—I _know_ how much you’ve been sleeping.”

That was quite a roundabout and polite way to say that Martin had slept just as much as Jon had, mostly because his nightmares had a nasty habit of spreading sleeplessness to all occupants of the bed like a malicious fungus. Martin had dark spots under his eyes that Jon felt like bruises in his own skin.

Jon nodded. It was a show of agreement, nothing promised, but hopefully Martin would take it as an indication that Jon planned to take a step back from his work. Pleasant as it was to have Martin’s affection always in his periphery, it _was_ more difficult to get work done under that gentle prodding.

“Remind me,” he said, “just for the tape, when they came. Why I didn’t see them myself.”

Martin sighed. “The other day, when you ran out to get more extinguishers, remember, you called me and went out to find them, and by the time I got to your office, where I’d heard you calling… there they were.”

“But you didn’t tell me until today.”

“Well, yeah,” Martin said indignantly. “I was _distracted,_ because there were worms in your office, Jon! I only noticed them once I’d already put the package in your desk, and _then_ I had other priorities, didn’t I!”

Raising a single weary hand as if that would be enough to ward off Martin’s frustration, Jon said, “Of course you did. None of them bit you, did they?”

Some of the defensive fervor seemed to leave Martin, and he slouched back down in his chair. “No, I’m fine. Have you noticed all the ones that we see around here seem pretty tame? I, I don’t like them, obviously, but they haven’t attacked anyone, at least.”

“Well. It’s nice to know that not every single thing that finds its way into the Institute means us harm.”

Martin eyed him cautiously. “You think the table might, then? I mean, if it’s the one from Amy Patel’s statement, I can believe that.”

Jon chuckled darkly. “Frankly, I would find it harder to believe that it _doesn’t_ have malicious intent.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice went a bit small. “Right, okay. That’s… okay. We should destroy it.”

“Not if I can help it. Elias suggested the same, but seeing as that’s hardly in keeping with our duty as researchers, I believe I’ll be keeping it intact for further investigation until I’m given more explicit instructions.”

Warily, Martin gestured down at the spiderweb lighter still clutched firmly in Jon’s hand. “Fine. So the table stays. What about that, then? Are you going to keep it?”

Jon frowned at it. Muscle memory had him briefly clicking on the flame before he huffed with frustration at his own disregard for archival protocol and set it pointedly on his desk. “No,” he said. His lips twisted as he added, “I don’t like spiders.”

There was a rubbish bin just to the left of his desk. He ignored Martin’s raised brow and his own better judgment and nestled it in his desk drawer instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!! The end is swiftly approaching, and in fact the approach is about to get even swifter—I'm returning to a weekly schedule for the last three chapters!! :D I'm especially excited about the next chapter, which will be out next Thursday, March 4th! I think I've got enough backlog to pull that off. Fingers crossed!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: minor body horror (the anatomy students from MAG34), worms, indirect discussions of Martin's mom and Jon's grandma being less-than-supportive guardians. As always, please let me know if there are other warnings I should be including :)


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